


The Sky is Empty

by rabbitflight



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-03-29 04:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13918956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitflight/pseuds/rabbitflight
Summary: Radar knows that Henry was never really his, but that doesn't stop him from wanting a different ending.





	1. Chapter 1

The camp is bustling as Radar hurries across it to Henry Blake’s tent. He ducks under Trapper and Hawkeye who are chained together for what he can only assume is a good reason before knocking on the tent door.

“Come in,” Henry sings out and Radar breezes into the tent. “Good morning, Radar,” he says from where he stands in front of his mirror, shaving.

“How'd you know it was me?”

“You're the only one who bothers to knock.”

“Oh, well, I brought the incident forms you wanted,” Radar sets his clipboard down on the rickety table beside Henry. “I'll set them right here.”

“Set them right there, Radar,” Henry gestures at the table with his razor. He tugs gently at the skin on his neck to catch a few stray hairs. “Figured we might have those on hand before anyone does anything stupid around the general.”

“Yes, sir.” Radar busies himself with pulling various articles of clothing off the lines criss-crossing the room.

“Did you ever notice that we seem to have more incidents in Major Houlihan’s tent every time we have a visitor?”

“Maybe she broke a mirror in there or something,” Radar smiles at Henry who is rinsing his face in the basin.

“Or someone did.” Henry turns to Radar and gives him a toothy grin, “Well, how do I look?”

“Oh! Very handsome, sir!”

Henry screws up his face, “You're just flattering me, aren't you?”

“No, really! You didn't cut your face once!”

He sighs, “’Suppose I didn't.” He crosses the room and sits heavily on the bed beside where Radar is folding and arranging clothes. Henry tugs his socks on and reaches for the fatigues that are strewn across the footlocker. “How much longer ‘til the general arrives?”

“About five minutes, Colonel.”

“Are you kidding? Why didn't you tell me sooner? I've been lounging around!” Henry leaps up and practically jumps into his trousers before throwing on his jacket. 

“Well, I figured you should take it easy, you didn't sleep well last night.” 

“Oh, I'm sorry, Radar, did I go and kick you again?”

“Just once, sir,”

Henry smiles down at him, “You know, I can't wait until you don't call me that.” The two lock gazes for a moment and Radar feels the affection rolling off Henry in waves, he wishes he could spend more than just a few moments soaking it in but he can hear the growl of a jeep’s tires less than a mile away from camp.

Henry slaps him on the shoulder a couple times before stepping into his half-tied boots. “Well, let's get out there,” he makes his way to the door with the company clerk hot on his tail. “Oh, wait!”

Henry turns quickly on his heels and takes Radar’s face in his hands. “Oh!” Radar squeaks in surprise before Henry kisses him deeply. His lips taste strongly of shaving cream and scotch. Radar pulls away and rubs frantically at his mouth, “What was that for?”

“Ya think the general can smell the scotch?”

“Not unless you kiss him too,” Radar mutters before wiping his tongue with his sleeve.

“Haha,” Henry snorts, “Just checking, and because I didn't get to kiss you before you got up this morning.” He flashes a smile that Radar thinks belongs on a movie star’s face.

Radar blushes deeply and tries to send that compliment to him mentally. He knows that Henry can't hear his thoughts but he can tell by the way Henry’s face lights up when their eyes meet that something in his brain might just have picked up on the message.

Henry turns again and they stride out the door. The majors are trying to drum up some kind of formation already but no matter how many corpsmen they surround Klinger with there's just no hiding his new peacock feather cap and beautiful blue sequined dress. Trapper and Hawkeye are leaning against a barrel in their bathrobes, still very much handcuffed together. 

Henry saunters over to them, “Did’ya lose the key or something?”

The captains shoot each other a glance, “Nah, Henry,” says McIntyre, “We’ve been training for the three armed surgeon races.”

“Yeah,” Pierce concurs, “Now where's the flood?”

Henry's brow creases and he places his hands on his hips, “Flood, what flood?”

Radar tugs his sleeve, “Sir, your-“

Henry shakes his hand off, “Not now, Radar. Now just what are you talking about, Pierce?”

“Well I figure there must be a flood somewhere or you have really grown since we last saw you.”

“What are you-“

“Sir!” Radar yelps. 

“What is it, Radar? What could possibly be so important-“

Radar points down at Henry's trousers frantically, “Sir, your pants.”

Henry looks down at himself. Both of his shins are completely exposed, his pants end just below his knees. Henry gulps as he hears the roar of a jeep’s engine turning the corner. Hawkeye and Trapper are shrieking with laughter and trying their darndest not to pull each other down into the dust.

“You have real nice quads, Henry!” Trapper shouts and he finally topples over pulling Hawkeye with him.

Several loud wolf-whistles come from the direction of the formation and the majors look absolutely mortified.

Henry looks up slowly, staring out towards the general’s jeep that is pulling into the compound. “Radar?”

“Yessir?”

“Why am I wearing your pants?”

***

The night is warm and Henry is leaning back in his office chair smoking a cigar and watching the smoke drift up and dissipate before it reaches the ceiling. Radar knows that he's thinking about something serious, Henry has been swirling the same glass of brandy around in his hand for the last half hour, too distracted to even sip it. 

Radar figures that he might as well leave Henry to his thoughts for a while, he only gets this way when he thinks of home and his wife. Those, he believes, are private thoughts, if Henry wants to talk to him about it then he will. So he carries on typing up the daily report at his desk and listening to the soothing sounds of the camp as it gets ready to rest. Klinger is pacing the compound just outside. Captains Pierce and McIntyre are enjoying a quiet nightcap after pulling themselves out of yet another scrape with a general. Surgery had gone well today and the general had long forgotten about Henry’s pants after it was all over. The only disruptions are coming from Major Houlihan’s tent, she and Major Burns are having a heated discussion about Major Burns’ wife. Radar tries to tune them out, there are only two ways that this can end, good and bad, and he doesn't want to hear either.

Radar’s ears burn and he knows that Henry has called out to him despite not realizing it yet. He stands and carries his chair into the office with him. 

“You wanted to see me?”

“Radar-“ Henry starts to shout but realizes the company clerk is already there, “Oh yes, sit down, sit down.” Radar carries the chair over behind Henry's desk and sits down in front of him. Henry wrings his hands nervously. “I’ve been thinking, Radar.” He takes a deep breath. “I think my time here is coming to an end.”

Radar's face falls, he hears static in his head, “What?”

“Well, I, um, I mean, my hands.” Henry holds them out palms down.

Radar assesses them, they're still the same hands, big and self-conscious, the same hands that hold him most nights and when they can't be Radar is dreaming that they are. “They look fine to me, Henry.” He takes a quiet pleasure in saying that name. He saves it for the evening when he knows that they won't be disturbed. And because he'd slipped up a few times, most frighteningly in the presence of Major Burns. It's easier to simply flip a switch in the morning and focus on being the company clerk. 

Henry sighs and slumps back into his chair. “But they don't feel fine,” he says, exasperated.

Radar reaches over and takes Henry's right hand, inspecting it. It's soft from the constant scrubbing, Henry's knuckles are chapped though, they tend to get worse when it's cold outside, but now, in the summer humidity, the skin holds up pretty well. Radar runs his fingers over the only calluses on Henry's hands, one at the tip of his forefinger and two more mirrored over that same finger and the inside of his thumb, all from threading fishing line.

“Do they hurt?” Radar whispers.

“They just ache, Pierce knows, it's arthritis, my dad had it.”

“Does that mean you're going home?”

Henry shrugs, “It means I can. But, not yet, I still have a lot to do around here.” He sighs, “Boy, I sure have some big things to think about.” He stares off into the distance.

“He means me,” Radar thinks. “Don't you wanna go home?”

“I do, but…” Henry trails off, “I dunno what that would mean, ya know?”

“For us?”

Henry blushes deeply, he still can't get used to the idea that there is a them. “Yeah…” Radar knows he wants to say something else but Henry just can't find the words. “Besides,” he says finally, “There’s still a lotta soldiers I gotta help before I go anywhere.” He looks back at Radar, “You don't get this kind of work in Bloomington.”

Radar smiles tiredly, “I know.”

“Well,” Henry reaches for his tumbler and drains the last of its contents, “We should get some sleep.” He rests his hand on Radar’s shoulder, “C’mon.”

Radar leans into his touch, enjoying the lightheaded feeling that Henry’s presence gives him. “I was gonna finish up the dailies first.”

Henry smiles and kisses him softly, “What would I do without you?”

***

Radar takes his time after Henry leaves, he always tries to be discreet when going to Henry’s tent. And it's much easier to sneak past Klinger when Henry isn't stomping around loud enough to wake the entire camp. He finishes the dailies and wraps himself in his robe before crossing the compound. Klinger is busy questioning a frustrated Major Burns, it seems that the argument with Margaret had ended badly for him. Radar hurries to the CO’s tent and ducks quickly inside. The door slams behind him and Radar jumps, Henry stirs on the bunk. 

“Is that you, Radar?” He mutters.

“It's me, Henry.” 

“C’mere.” Radar happily complies, he tosses his robe onto the footlocker and pulls off his boots before crawling into the bunk beside Henry. Henry rolls over to face him and pulls Radar close before sighing heavily, Radar’s glasses fog and he realizes he forgot to take them off. He sits up to remove them and Henry lets out an irritated groan. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Radar whispers as he sets the glasses down on the shelf, he settles back down into Henry's arms.  
Their foreheads touch and Radar feels the world sway gently, just being near Henry overwhelms him. He begins to drift off but snaps awake again when Henry kisses his lips gently.

“I'm so selfish, Radar.”

“You are not.”

“I am.” Henry tightens his grip on him and Radar squeezes a knee between Henry’s legs to get closer. “I don't want this war to end if I means I get to be with you.”

He strokes Henry's cheek, it's already rough despite the shave this morning. He’s due for a haircut too, Radar notes, his feathery blonde hair is beginning to curl in the back and on the sides of his face. The strands are crunchy with sweat from the day’s OR session. 

“Maybe we’ll go home together,” he whispers after a long pause. But Henry is already snoring, his face pressed into Radar’s shoulder. Radar follows suit just a minute later

***  
The war comes to a close for Henry earlier than anyone had expected. Radar can't think straight, his head is buzzing with nervous energy. As he sits at his desk he can't keep his leg still, it’s bouncing wildly as he waits for Henry to finish up in OR. He can hear everyone in the scrub room congratulating Henry, he got all of the necessary points for discharge, the lucky son of a gun. Radar focuses on Henry’s thoughts, but that only makes him dizzier. 

Usually Radar could just sit, enjoying the quietness of Henry's thoughts, but today, instead of lures he wanted to make and the slow careful schemes he came up with to dodge Majors Burns and Houlihan, Henry’s mind was racing. There are a million different thoughts on Henry's mind all pulling him in different directions. 

Radar pulls himself away and focuses on the documents in front of him, he bites his lower lip. He’s happy Henry is leaving, it’s safe in the States. Safer than Korea. But only one of them is going home, which means that Henry is going to have to make a decision. And for once Radar can't predict what he is going to do, Henry’s head is just too much of a mess. 

Radar jumps when Henry nearly crashes backwards through the office doors. He's shaking hands with all the personnel from the OR. Radar stands up and watches Henry’s shoulders jerk from all the force he’s putting behind the handshakes. Finally the line of well-wishers depart and Henry turns to face him. Radar feels like he can't breathe and Henry’s grin softens into an awkward smile, he laughs nervously. 

Henry gestures to the door of his office and Radar grits his teeth, for the first time in a long time he can't read Henry’s thoughts and that unsettles him. He turns and walks slowly into the office and leans against the filing cabinet nearest Henry's desk. Henry follows him and sits heavily in his chair. 

Before Henry even opens his mouth Radar cuts him off, “I'm gonna miss ya.”

Henry chews the inside of his mouth thoughtfully. “I'm gonna miss you too.” 

“I'm gonna finish filing some stuff if you don't mind, sir.” Radar turns quickly to exit the office. 

“Wait! Radar-“ Henry starts. Radar stops with his hand on the door. “Do you know already?”

“No, I don't,” and truthfully he really doesn’t. Radar turns back towards Henry. “I don't wanna think about what you're possibly probably thinking in your head. And I don’t want you to say what you're thinking, if it's what I think it is, because that'll hurt worse.”

Henry swallows, he looks trapped. He stares at Radar for a moment before looking down at the glass of scotch Radar had poured him before he'd left the office to give Henry the news. Radar holds his breath when Henry looks up at him again.

“I'm going home to Lorraine.”

Radar lets the breath out. He licks his lips nervously, he feels like the floor has been pulled out from under him and he's falling.  
“I know, sir.”

“I'm sorry,” Henry’s voice breaks, Radar swallows the lump in his throat. Henry was never really his, he couldn't have hoped for a different outcome, but he had anyways. 

Radar tries to smile, “Why are you sorry?”

Henry sniffs, he's trying not to cry. Radar almost wishes he would so that maybe they could cry a bit together, that would feel normal. They could cry together like they did when Henry cracked or when Radar thought about home. 

“You deserve better, I wasted your time, you could meet someone, you know?”

Radar blinks back angry tears. “You are someone.” He turns and leaves the office. Radar climbs into his bunk, fully dressed, and pulls the covers over himself. He decides that this isn't fair, but that the past few months were all he could've asked for.

Henry stumbles out of his office an hour later and murmurs something apologetic but Radar doesn't really want to hear it and after a few moments of silence Henry shuffles out of the building. 

Radar decides he's being the selfish one.

***

The next morning is a little different, and the day feels almost normal. Despite packing up Henry's things and exchanging their parting gifts Radar couldn't seem to internalize that these were his final days with Henry Blake. He'd solemnly sworn to himself not to visit Bloomington. Not out of spite, but he figured it was the nicest thing he could do for himself and for Henry. 

The day passes and Radar settles down for the second in a series of very lonely nights. Or he would've if Trapper and Hawkeye weren't suddenly barging into his office.

“Radar, Radar,” Hawkeye hisses. He and Trapper squat down beside his bunk.

“What do you guys want?” Radar whines as he sits up.

“What are Henry's measurements?”

Radar’s face flushes. “Now why would I know that?” he squawks, flustered.

“’You have his file, dontcha?” says Trapper.

“I mean, yeah,” Radar mutters, “But-“

“But what?” Hawkeye demands.

“Protecting Henry's modesty?” Trapper prods.

Radar feels his face get hot, “They're not accurate anymore!” He hisses. 

“Been trying on Henry's pants recently, Radar?” Hawkeye teases.

“He wants to know how much taller he’s getting,” Trapper bats back.

“Knock it off you guys!” Radar huffs, “What do you want me to do?”

Hawkeye and Trapper look at each other, “Henry's a pretty deep sleeper, right?” Trapper asks looking back at Radar.

Radar shifts uncomfortably under their gazes, “I dunno!”

“Yes you do, Radar!” Hawkeye scolds.

Radar gulps and closes his eyes, this is it, they know, secret’s out.

“You wake him up every morning!” Trapper says.

Radar opens his eyes and breathes again.

“And after every liquid lunch,” Hawkeye deadpans.

“Well, yeah, I guess he is,” says Radar, relieved.

“Then its decided!” Trapper shouts, “Get us a sheet, Radar!”

“What are you sirs, gonna do to him?”

Trapper grins wildly, “We're gonna help you trace him!”

“Me!”

“Yes, you! Do you know another you in this camp?” 

Radar fixes his glasses on his nose and the two men step away from the bed to let him up. “You guys are drunk! Whaddya need to trace Henry for anyways?”

Trapper and Hawkeye look at each other, “Henry?” Hawkeye asks, quirking his eyebrow.

“Uh, I mean the Colonel, sirs.” Old habits die hard he supposes. 

Trapper flashes Radar a sharp toothed grin, “We’re gonna have him a suit made!”

“A suit?” Radar pulls on his fatigues and boots.

“Yeah! A going away gift! We’ll send him home in civvies!” 

“Oh!” He stands, it's not a bad idea, but lifting an unconscious Henry Blake is easier said than done. “Well if this goes sour it's gonna be you sirs head, not mine.”

“We’ll defend you to the bitter end! Now let's go!” Trapper marches forward through the front door towards the supply tent. Radar moves to follow but is stopped when Hawkeye blocks his way in the doorframe.

Hawkeye grins widely at Radar and gives him a sharp jab in the ribs with his elbow, “Not like ol’ Henry would mind getting woken up by you anyways? Right, Radar?” Hawkeye gives him a knowing wink before following after Trapper, leaving Radar confused and indignant.

Radar follows them to the supply tent and they fetch a sheet while he grabs a fat charcoal pencil from his own supplies. Then they make their way over to Henry's tent. Trapper pushes on the door carefully, but it doesn't budge. 

“Locked,” mutters Hawkeye. 

Radar sighs and pushes past them, the screen on the door is not glued down all the way. He reaches his arm through the flap and unlatches the door from the inside. He slowly presses on the door and the trio slink in. The door creaks a bit but the sound is drowned out by Henry's snoring. Hawkeye gestures to Trapper, pointing him to the head of the bunk. Trapper tiptoes quietly to Henry’s side. 

The two men carefully push aside the covers and slide their arms under Henry before lifting him off of the bunk and onto the floor where Radar has spread the sheet. Henry murmurs something in his sleep as Hawkeye and Trapper spread his arms out.  
Radar can only hope it's nothing incriminating. Hawkeye steps away and looks at Radar, he makes a bunch of quick hand gestures and Radar cocks his head trying to read them all. Confused, he mimics a few.

Trapper rolls his eyes at Hawkeye, “Hawk’s messing with you, make with the tracing.”

“Oh!” Radar says too loudly and slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Shhh!” Trapper and Hawkeye hiss in unison. They all turn and stare at Henry.

Henry mumbles something again but is back to snoring almost immediately. Radar wonders how much he'd had to drink that evening. He kneels down and traces Henry as fast as he can. He's acutely aware of the two captains watching him and prays he isn't doing this too fast or too slow either. Radar hops to his feet when it's done, he's lightheaded and he wonders for just a moment if Henry would protest if Radar snuck back in and took up his usual spot in the bunk next to him.

The captains lift Henry up again and place him back into the cot. They pull the covers over him again and salute before motioning to Radar to follow them out of the tent. 

“Well that was easy!” Hawkeye says. “Gimme that sheet, Radar, we have to get this shipped off to Seoul ASAP!”

Radar hands him the sheet and the captains pat him on the back before dashing off to complete their plans. Radar stands in the compound and stares longingly at the tent for just a few moments more. He imagines himself sleeping beside Henry one last time before trudging back to his own bunk.

***

Radar can barely keep his eyes off Henry at Rosie’s bar. He knows he's close to blacking out but he tries to focus on pushing through to the end of the night. He doesn't want to miss a single one of these final moments. 

Henry already has the key to his footlocker on the keychain that Radar had given him. This comforts him somehow, he imagines Henry absentmindedly running his finger over the inscription. It makes him feel guilty too though, he doesn't want Henry to be sad when he thinks of Radar. He can't tell what emotions Henry is feeling, Radar can barely make sense of his own emotions, all he knows is that he is dizzy and will probably throw up within the hour. Hopefully that'll sober him up, the compulsion to sneak into Henry's tent has been overwhelming the last few days and he doesn't trust his severely impaired brain not to give in to the alcohol and loneliness.

Radar wishes he hadn't gotten drunk, maybe then he'd be able to say something meaningful to Henry instead of just giggling and staring at the wall vacantly. He can’t meet Henry's gaze anymore, he’ll probably swoon and vomit right on the table. Finally he lays down on the floor enjoying the stability of it, Hawkeye and Trapper aren't far behind him either. The suit had been a hit but just standing had drained all of them. Henry slumps against the wall and Radar watches his chest rise and fall slowly. He can't see Henry's face from his position under the table but he gets the feeling that Henry is staring right at him. Slowly Henry slides further down the wall until their eyes meet. Radar wants to reach out and feel his thoughts, but he's just too drunk. 

Henry leans down to the floor and carefully army crawls his way over to Radar. They stare at each other. Henry's breath fogs Radar's glasses before Henry slumps forward into the sand and falls asleep there, facedown. Radar stares at him for a moment more before slowly closing his own eyes and willing himself to sleep.

***

Radar breathes in the cool morning air that is just beginning to be warmed by the sun. It feels brand new in his lungs, like it has just been blown in off the sea. He can barely register what Henry is saying to him and what he is saying to Henry, and he wishes he'd held onto those moments just a little longer as he watches the helicopter lift off. He stares after it until he can't hear the hum of the blades any longer. And even after that he stands there a little longer breathing in the new air and accepting his lot.

Radar is the last to walk down from the chopper pad and the first to rush up to it again after he alerts the camp of the incoming wounded. And for just a few hours Radar forgets about Henry. When he realizes that he's forgotten his chest feels emptier that before. He figures that this will be the cycle for a while and wonders if Henry feels the same. Inside his office Radar looks at his watch, the plane should've left an hour ago. He wonders if Henry had reached into his pocket and run his finger over the inscription yet.

The phone rings.

“Heya, Sparky!” He chirps, “Didya get the book I sent you?”

The line crackles.

“Sparky?”

“Hey, uh, Radar,” Sparky pauses and Radar can hear him shift in his chair.

“What's up, Sparky?”

“I got a message for your CO.”

Radar grabs his pencil and paper, “Shoot!”

“Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake’s plane,” the lead of Radar’s pencil snaps against the paper and his blood goes cold. He doesn't quite hear the rest of it. He shakily reaches for another pencil and finishes the message, his brain willing his hand to write purely on instinct.

“Radar?” Sparky whispers into the phone.

“Yeah?” 

“I'm real sorry.” The phone line clicks. Radar stands and leaves his office. He drags his feet across the compound. He hugs the clipboard tight to his chest as he stumbles through the scrub room and into the OR. Someone tells him to put a mask on, someone else cracks a joke. Radar feels his mouth moving, he can't tell if he had made any noise though. Someone drops an instrument, the air is still, so he must have said it. 

Radar shuffles out of the OR and collapses on the bench in the scrub room. A few nurses come out, their masks are wet and they squeeze his shoulder as they pass, then they reenter the OR with fresh masks. Radar doesn't know just how long he's been sitting there but it's long enough for the deluge to end and the doctors to leave, they scrub their hands and Radar can feel them shooting him watery gazes. Finally Hawkeye and Trapper sit down beside him. They're whispering comforting things, he can hear them crying softly too.

He should be crying, he thinks, but instead he just feels nothing. Hawkeye lifts him up from the bench and he and Trapper brace themselves on either side of Radar. They walk back to the office. Radar realizes he must be in shock, like all the soldiers that come in with shrapnel in their chests. Trapper and Hawkeye lay him on the bed and mutter to each other quietly before leaving him alone with his all too clear thoughts. 

Radar can't tell if he slept or not but the phone is ringing. His mouth is dry and he struggles to lift himself off the bed, but he makes it to his chair and slumps into it before lifting the receiver to his ear. 

“What's up, Sparky?”

“Call from Seoul, Radar,”

“Patch it through.” He rests his head in his palm. The line whirs for a moment then silence on the other end. Radar sighs, “MASH 4077.”

“Radar?”

He stiffens, this is not happening, Radar turns to stare at his cot, he's not in it, but this has to be a dream.

“Radar, are you there?” 

“Henry?”

“It's me, Radar.”

“You're dead.”

There's a nervous laugh at the other end of the phone, “Seems I'm not.” Henry's voice is just a whisper and Radar wonders for a moment if he is talking to a ghost. “I missed my plane, Radar.”

Radar is sobbing now, “You didn't, stop that, I know this is a joke!”

“Radar, Radar! Please! It's me,” Henry hiccups, “Don’t make me cry or else I'll have to come back there.”

Radar sniffs loudly. He doesn't know what to say, he believes it's Henry, but it just can't be.

“I was wrong, Radar, really wrong, I talked to Lorraine, I told her to call up Al Franklin and walk into the country club with him.”

Radar feels anger for just a moment, “Henry, that's so stupid, you're just doing this ‘cause you almost died and it's making you crazy.” 

“Radar, I really mean it, I'm serious!” Henry sighs, “This is the clearest I've thought in a long time and I haven't even had a drink yet!” Radar is silent, he tries as hard as he can to reach out into Henry's mind, he finds something, something cool and calm, he can't tell if he's reached Henry or if he can just feel another ocean breeze.

“Radar, I'm gonna write you as soon as I get to the States, I promise, I only have a few more seconds on the line. I really thought about this, I love you.”

Radar opens his mouth to respond but in that instant the line is cut.

“Good news, Radar?” Sparky is on the other end again.

“I hope so, Sparky, I really do.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Radar,

I'm sorry we didn't get to talk more before I left. I’m sorry I put you through that. I'm back in Bloomington now, it's good to see Lorraine and the kids and the dog. Things feel different though, I met Andy for the first time, and it felt like I was meeting the girls again for the first time too. The dog didn't recognize me, bit my thumb and now it's swollen. I'm mailing you some pictures of the kids, thought you might like to see them.

Korea doesn't seem real. I feel like I was asleep somewhere and I just woke up and got told, “this is your family now and this is where you live,” but I don't remember any of it. Lorraine comes into my study sometimes and I always think it's you before I look up and realize it's not. 

That's something that hasn't changed, I'm sleeping in a cot here, in my study I mean. It's not because of Lorraine or anything. Or I guess it is, I don't know, things are just different. I think I'm going to go on a fishing trip for about a week, all the white picket fences remind me of Frank Burns and I think it's giving me a rash.

Call me soon, two minutes would be enough. Write me if you can, but I'll understand if you don't. It’s okay if you don't too. And you know it better than I do, don't write too much about the war effort, loose lips sink ships.

Yours Truly,  
Henry Blake

“Wow,” Radar breathes as he finishes reading the letter aloud, “What d’ya think of that?”

“I didn't realize Henry could be so verbose.” Hawkeye says sarcastically. He's sprawled on Radar’s cot, filing his nails. “The man’s a veritable poet.”

Radar leans over the back of his chair to look at him from the desk. “Do you really think he'd leave his wife?”

Hawkeye stops filing and looks up at him, “Are you really gonna write him back, Radar?”

“Well, yeah,”

“You know you don't have to. Radar, Henry can't tell you what to do anymore.”

“He never did!” Radar turns away and searches a coffee can for a sharpened pencil. “What are you doing in here any how, huh?”

Hawkeye sighs, “I'm sorry, Radar, I know he didn't. Henry doesn't have a bad bone in his body, a bit weak in the head but nonetheless.” There's a long pause and Radar chews the end of his pencil. “Do you think that new captain is good-looking?”

“Who, Hunnicutt? I mean- hey! What's that supposed to mean?” Radar whirls around in his chair.

Hawkeye sits up, his mouth is drawn into a thin frown, it has been since Trapper left. Radar thinks that Hawkeye must feel as lost as he does right now. “It doesn't mean anything I'm just asking.”

“He's a married guy, y’know!”

“So’s Henry, and they both sleep in cots, birds of a feather.”

Radar sets his jaw, “Not the same.”

“Oh, Radar, you misunderstand,” Hawkeye drawls, “I'm not asking for you I'm asking for a friend.”

“A friend?”

“Yeah, a friend, of the nurse persuasion.”

“I mean, he's real nice, but I dunno.”

Hawkeye groans and flops back down on the cot.

“Uh, Hawk, what does the last part mean, about the war effort and ships? I dunno anything about boats or nothing.”

“He just means be careful, Radar.”

“But I dunno any secrets!”

“It's about you, Radar! Your secret! Henry!”

“Oh. Oh! Yeah, I guess they got people reading the mail and stuff don't they?”

Hawkeye lets out another sigh, he's been doing that a lot lately. “Why did you tell me about you and Henry anyway?”

Radar shrugs, “Because you're the same as me, I guess?”

Hawkeye props himself up with his elbows and looks at Radar carefully, “How do you know?”

“I just know,” Radar averts his gaze, he doesn't want to bring up Trapper, Hawkeye has had enough reminders.

Hawkeye raises his brow, “Uh-huh, you like girls?”

“I dunno.” Radar feels his face get hot, this was not necessarily a conversation he wanted to have. Saying this sort of thing aloud embarrassed him somehow.

“I see.” Hawkeye seems to think carefully about this. 

“I mean I always grew up thinking I was gonna like girls, but I just dunno now.”

“Because you met Henry?”

Radar shakes his head, “No, I liked other guys, but Henry is special.”

Hawkeye nods and looks out the window, he's silent for a moment. “You'll figure it out, Radar.”

“I sure hope so,” Radar watches him for a bit, he hopes that Hawkeye can figure it out too. “Why aren't you in your tent, Hawk? It's real late, you should get some rest.”

Hawkeye turns to him and swings his legs off the cot, “Y’know, I was thinking the same thing?” 

Radar smiles a little at that. Hawkeye crosses the room lazily and pats his shoulder, “Get some rest, Radar, and keep me updated on BJ.” Radar nods and Hawkeye turns to leave.

“Oh! Wait, you're not asking for a friend at all!”

Hawkeye turns to look at him with his hand on the door, “That's our Radar, quick as a whip,” he says grinning and disappears into the night. Radar is still a bit stunned, he knows just how much Trapper meant to Hawkeye, maybe it was just as much as Henry meant to him. He just hopes Hawkeye isn't back to being too much of a heartbreaker, BJ seems like a real nice guy.

Radar chews his bottom lip and stares at the notepad in front of him. He isn't quite sure what to say to Henry, it's much easier writing home. He doesn't have so many feelings when he does that, he can just talk about his job here in Korea and how much he misses Iowa. But with Henry, he wants to tell him his emotions and it seems that emotions require a lot more words than a daily report. He wishes Henry was here, then maybe they could just hold each other and Radar wouldn't have to say anything to make him understand.

Dear, Henry,

I sure am glad you are safe. Funny that you got bit by a dog too, I still have a scar from when I got bit. Hope you do not have to get any shots. We got a new surgeon last week, his name is BJ Hunnicutt and he is a captain too. Trapper left, maybe you will see him in the States.

You would like Captain Hunnicutt, he is pretty swell, Hawkeye thinks so too. Major Burns just learned he will be replaced, we are very lucky. Hopefully the new colonel will be nice like you, but I wish he’d be you. 

I hope the fishing is good, there is a stream near my house that I used to go fishing at. Maybe we can do that soon. I hope the war ends soon, it already feels like a long time since you left. I will call you, I hope you are home when I do.

Yours Truly,  
Radar O’Reilly

***

The phone seems like it's been ringing forever and Radar contemplates hanging up. If he hadn't spent the better part of two hours just trying to get through to Bloomington he might do just that. His palms are sweaty and he feels faint in the humid summer air. Everything is setting him on edge, he's expecting Colonel Potter back from Seoul soon and the pauses between each ring seem to be getting longer and heavier.  
He jumps when the line crackles, somebody picked up.

“Hello?” The voice is singsongy and Radar almost collapses onto his desk in relief.

“Henry!” He shouts into the receiver.

“Who- Radar!” Henry is laughing giddily on the other end of the line, “How'd you manage to call me so soon?”

Radar smiles broadly, “It’s been quiet here and Sparky likes a challenge, plus I promised to send him some new medical books.”

Henry clicks his tongue in mock disapproval and laughs again, “How long do we have, Radar?”

“Just a few minutes,” he doesn't want to put a number on it, hearing the line go dead will be better than having to say goodbye.

Radar hears Henry breathe out, it makes the line crackle loudly. “Gotta talk to you, Radar.”

He sucks in air, next to the line getting picked up by Mrs. Blake this was Radar’s biggest fear. He steels himself, “We’re talking now, aren't we?”

Henry laughs quietly, “Yeah we are. I wanna talk about you though, I've been thinking.” Radar goes quiet, Henry has been thinking and he hasn't been there to hear any of it. “I think you should forget about me for a bit, Radar.”

“Why’s that?”

He can hear Henry shift and he tries to imagine his study. It's probably warm and cluttered with scrap paper and children's drawings, Radar could never keep up with the mess on Henry’s desk in Korea, he just hopes that Henry has an ashtray there. Radar had given up trying to sweep up the ashes that settled on the office floor. When Colonel Potter had rearranged the room Radar was a bit embarrassed by the piles of cigar ash that they found under nearly every file cabinet. It seemed that Henry had taken to sweeping the floor himself, but he obviously hadn't planned on anyone discovering the half-completed task. 

“Radar, I meant what I said before, you could meet someone. I don't- you know, I don't want you getting stuck on me.”

Radar feels betrayed and stupid. “I don't understand.”

“You deserve better than me, so do Lorraine and the kids. And you're young, you already got yourself mixed up in that war, I don't want you losing more years.”

His brow knits, “I don't wanna lose more years, but I'm not losing them with you I don't think, I think I wanna spend them with you.”

Henry sighs, “You're a good kid, Radar, I just don't want you to think you don't have a choice.”

“I know what I'm choosing,” Radar huffs. 

“I just- just think about it, okay? I want you to think about it, I thought about it and Lorraine and I are gonna divorce. And that has got nothing to do with you, it was gonna happen… But I want you to know that I am gonna be fine and that I made a choice.”

Radar is frustrated, Henry isn't very good with words and for the hundredth time that day he wishes that he was with Henry so he could untangle these thoughts instead of being stuck on the other side of the world with a bunch of vague sentences. 

“Look, Radar, all I'm saying is don't wait up for me, y’know? It's gonna be a while before we see each other again and… You don't owe me anything, got it? Not a thing.”

Radar nods a bit, “Yeah, I got it.”

“Good, good. Oh and tell me about that stream that-“ the line cuts off and Radar gets an earful of static. He sits quietly for a minute, the colonel’s jeep is a half mile away, it'll be a quiet night he suspects. Finally Radar composes himself enough to stop listening to the static over Illinois, however close it makes him feel to Henry, and he hangs up the phone.

He completes his reports as he waits for Colonel Potter and shuffles a few papers aimlessly. He figures he'll talk to Hawkeye after reporting to Potter. He can hear BJ milling around in post-op, he has a long shift. 

An hour later Radar knocks on the door of the Swamp. “Come in!” Hawkeye calls out and Radar can already tell the captain is a few drinks in. He pokes his head in, Frank is gone and the tent is empty save for Hawkeye darning socks and swilling gin. “What's up, Radar?” he says turning to look at him from his cot. 

“Just came to get a drink, Hawkeye.” Radar makes his way over to the still but when he looks at the glasses his stomach churns, it’s much too soon after his binge at Rosie's bar apparently. 

“Cut out the act, Radar,” Hawkeye teases, “Did you talk to Henry?”

Radar turns away from the still and slumps his shoulders, he feels a bit silly for putting on airs for no particular reason. “Yeah, I did,” he crosses the room and perches on the edge of Hawkeye’s chair.

“What did he say?”

“Oh you know, he's getting a divorce,”

“And…”

“And?”

“Yes ‘and,’ Radar, you don't look very happy for a guy who just got a ‘Dear Jane’ letter written because of him.”

Radar shrugs, “Henry told me to forget about him for a while.”

Hawkeye doesn't seem fazed, “Can't say I disagree with him there.”

“Gee, I come here for advice and that's what I get?” 

“I dunno what you want from me, Radar,” Hawkeye fixes him with a steady gaze, “Henry’s doing the right thing, in his own way, you need to start figuring about what you want. You can't just follow people blindly.”

This makes Radar's blood boil, he takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment. “You always are telling me what to do. Well I'm doing what I want, Hawkeye, I'm not as dumb as you think I am. Henry was always nice to me and I really care about him.” 

“You really think he's gonna leave his wife? He's gonna string you along just like he did with that girl, I know people like Henry.”

That does it for Radar, he leaps up and stands over Hawkeye, “You know people like him?” He's shouting now and he wishes he wasn't because someone might hear but he's too mad to back down at this point. “You know people like him ‘cause you're one of them or ‘cause that's what Trapper did to you?” He jabs his finger at Hawkeye. “Did *you* think he was gonna leave his wife, huh?”

Hawkeye is silent, he stands slowly and when he does Radar has to lean back to look up at him. “You're so naïve,” he snarls. His eyes are watery and red, Radar can't tell if it's because of anger or grief or gin. 

Radar clenches his hands into fists and opens his mouth again when the door of the tent bangs open and Frank marches in, his hands shoved in his pockets. He fixes Radar with a hostile glare, “What're you doing in here?” He spits.

Radar can hear Hawkeye grind his teeth as he turns towards Frank, “He was just leaving, Frank.” 

“He'd better be.” 

Radar glares at Hawkeye one last time before heading towards the door. Frank is still halfway in the frame and in his rush Radar knocks him hard in the arm with his shoulder.

“Watch out, you creep,” Frank hisses and Radar rounds on him. He's too mad to even respond and can only manage a few undignified huffs before he turns again and heads for the office. 

The air is suffocating outside and almost stagnant inside the building. Radar roughly wipes the sweat from his brow. His heart is still pounding in his chest when he sits down and slumps forward onto the desk. He can't understand why he's arguing with Hawkeye so much. 

If anything Hawkeye should understand his situation better than anyone. Radar sighs, and if anything that's exactly the reason they argue. As Radar takes a few more deep breaths to calm himself he figures he'll apologize to Hawkeye in the morning. He sits up and reaches into his desk drawer. He pulls out an envelope with his name printed in short careful strokes. He runs his finger over the Illinois address and breathes in the smell of tobacco that has permeated the paper. Radar wants to preserve that smell for as long as he can. But it's already starting to fade, it's beginning to smell like ordinary paper again. 

Radar wonders if he should write Henry and ask for a package of the cigars he smokes so that he never forgets that smell. He turns off the lamp on his desk and gets ready to sleep, taking the envelope over to the bed with him. When he finally crawls into his cot he slides the letter into his pillowcase and rests his head as close to it as he dares. He doesn't want to bend it. 

Radar breathes in softly and closes his eyes. He imagines that it's a cool spring night in Illinois and they are by a river and nothing will ever change.

***

Dear Henry, 

You will never believe this! I saved somebody today! I helped Captain Hunnicutt with a kid named Private Phelan. And Captain Hunnicutt said I saved his life. I sure am proud of myself, I feel like I really helped out, and not just in the way I usually help out. This time it was important! 

Phelan is a really nice guy, we talk a lot when he is awake. I think he likes me too. It is nice to have a friend here. I think he is someone like me. I'm not forgetting about you though. But maybe I will talk to him about that sort of thing when he feels better.

I have to end this letter now since the mail truck is here, how is the fishing? Write me soon!

Yours Truly,  
Radar O’Reilly

Dear Henry, 

Private Phelan died. I already wrote you a letter saying I saved him and it is probably already in Seoul so I can't get it back. I think I know how you and Hawkeye and BJ and Trapper feel now. It feels real bad and I wish I hadn't sent you that letter. BJ was real nice to me about it but I couldn't tell him why I was so sad. Colonel Potter was nice about it too, he liked the letter I wrote to Private Phelan’s ma, it didn't help much though.

I feel lonely here, I got into a fight with Hawkeye a few weeks ago and I never told him I was sorry about Trapper. Trapper didn't even leave him a note or anything and he misses him a lot. I want to go home. I will try to call you soon, Hawkeye told me you helped him when he lost a patient, maybe you can tell me how to help Hawkeye or something. 

Yours Truly,  
Radar O’Reilly

Dear Radar,

I'm sorry to hear about Private Phelan. You gotta know that you helped him and that's what matters. I know it's hard, but let yourself move on. Talk to Pierce about it, I know he cares about you. And take care of yourself, I worry about you. Everybody counts on you a lot more than you know. Can’t say I know how to help you with Pierce though, never really was good at things like that. Command school only gets you so far. 

Funny thing about being home, it's almost boring. There's always something going on with the kids, but it's simple. Easy, you know? I think Pierce and McIntyre gave me more trouble than them. Puts a lot of things into perspective. Tell me about living on that farm sometime.

Yours Truly,  
Henry Blake

***

Radar makes his way slowly across the mess tent to the table where Hawkeye is sitting. He's nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee and is still dressed in scrubs. The deluge had gone on for two whole days, Radar wasn't entirely sure that Hawkeye had slept yet. 

“Hi, Hawkeye,” Radar's voice cracks, he clears his throat, “Hi, Hawkeye, can I sit here?”

Hawkeye looks up at him, his eyes are bloodshot. “Sure, Radar.”

Radar steps over the bench and sits down with his tray. He makes an attempt to cut through the corned beef with the side of his fork but gives up and ends up having to pick up the whole thing to take a bite out of it.

“Is that even warm, Radar?”

Radar chews the dry meat for a moment, “Warmer than yesterday,” he says around the mouthful. Hawkeye makes a face and Radar swallows. “Sorry, Hawkeye.”

“For talking with your mouth full? I just thought it was always like that”

“About Trapper.”

“Oh.” Hawkeye stares down into his mug with the same intensity that Klinger had when he’d read Radar’s tea leaves once. Klinger, predictably, said that Radar would forge discharge papers for a certain corporal and if he did he would be rewarded with a long and peaceful life. Radar doesn't think he believes in those things but for just a moment he'd wondered if he'd missed his chance. 

“I shouldn't have said that stuff, it was real mean. Trapper cared about you a whole lot.” 

Hawkeye looks up at him, he rubs the side of his face roughly with one hand. “It's okay, Radar, I shouldn't have said those things about Henry.”

“Do you wanna talk about Trapper?”

Hawkeye takes a swig of his coffee, “Nah, Radar, think I'd better move on. You can't get stuck on people y’know?”

“I'm not stuck on Henry.”

“I'm not talking about Henry.” Radar looks away and presses down on the mashed potatoes with his fork, sifting through the mush for any little rice shaped worms. “BJ told me about Private Phelan, you lost one. That hurts. But you can't let it get you.”

Radar sniffs, for the first time in a very long time the thought of maggots turns his stomach and he pulls his fork out of the potatoes. He suddenly doesn't feel hungry.

“If you do, you're never gonna leave Korea,” Hawkeye says this very quietly. “If you think about it you're gonna be here forever.”

Radar drops his fork dejectedly and looks up at him, “How don't you think about it, Hawk?”

Hawkeye shifts on the bench and takes another sip of coffee. “I'm just not here, I think about Crabapple Cove and I never ever let them tell me what to do. I'm here to patch up kids and leave, that's it.” Hawkeye smiles and lifts his legs onto the bench, lounging across it and leaning an elbow on the table. “ I like to think of myself as a kidney stone, I'm just passing through. And I'm kicking and screaming the entire way.”

Radar grimaces. “I've never kicked or screamed though.”

“Radar, you have punched so many holes in the rules around here that the chain of command looks like Swiss cheese, I'm not sure it will ever recover. You have lied, stolen, sneaked, and cheated your way through this entire war and if that isn't kicking and screaming I don't know what is.” Hawkeye drains the last of his coffee and stares off into the distance. Radar can see in his mind’s eye the mug of hot apple cider that Hawkeye is imagining in place of the bitter black coffee. 

“Besides,” Hawkeye says, “I think you're still in Iowa.” Radar watches Hawkeye for a while, he wishes he could recall the wide blue sky above the farm as well as Hawkeye can recall the vivid autumn colors of Maine. But he can't, and so he rubs his thumb and forefinger together and tries to remember the way Henry's hands feel. 

Hawkeye turns and slides his legs off the bench, he stands and stretches his back out, the joints crack loudly. “Ah, gonna get some shuteye, Radar, my cot is calling to me.”

“Yes, sir,” Radar says, coming out of his trance as well. “Oh, Hawkeye, BJ thinks you're a pretty swell guy, y'know?”

Hawkeye laughs, “I'm ahead of you for once, Radar.” He leaves the mess tent and Radar wonders what Hawkeye means for just a moment before he realizes that he's hungry again and turns his attention to his now cold dinner.

***

Radar nearly falls out of his cot when the phone rings. He curses under his breath, he'd finally fallen asleep despite the pounding of the rain on the aluminum roof. He wraps his wool blanket over his shoulders and stumbles across the room to his desk. Cold air cuts through the badly weather-proofed doors and Radar is forced to sit in the draft when he finally picks up the line. He fumbles blindly around his desk and finally finds the lamp switch, the dim light hurts his eyes.

“M-MASH 4077, Corporal O’Reilly,” Radar says groggily, his teeth are chattering already. 

“Radar?” He jerks the receiver from his ear. The voice on the other end is shouting over what sounds like a waterfall. “Can you hear me?”

It takes Radar a moment, “Henry?” he hollers back, “What's going on there?”

“It's raining! It's good to hear you, Radar!”

Radar turns and blinks at the clock on the wall behind him, “Henry, it's four AM here, are you standing in the rain or somethin’?”

“Oh sorry, Radar!” Henry isn't getting any quieter and Radar holds the phone as far from his ear as he dares, “And yeah, I'm at a pay phone.”

“A pay phone? Why a pay phone?”

“Uh, well, house is kinda busy at the moment, and I wanted to talk to you.” There's a long silence, Radar rubs his eyes and pulls the blanket tighter around himself as he tries to wake up. “I miss you, Radar.”

“Miss you too,” he mutters, “It's raining here in Korea.”

“Huh, well, imagine that! Wonder if it's the same storm!” Radar imagines a huge black cloud covering Korea and Illinois and the whole ocean in between, he feels small. 

“Hey, Henry?”

“Yeah, Radar?”

“Hawkeye said some stuff and it's got me thinking.”

“Uh-huh?”

Radar swallows, “Never mind, what did you call me for?”

There's a pause, “Y’know? I dunno, Radar, I was just thinking to myself, ‘I should call Radar,’ and so I went out to call you. Good thing you picked up too, I only have a couple of quarters left.”

“How's the fishing?”

“Well, no good now, it hasn't stopped raining in days, ‘course it's gotta be better than where you are, I haven't seen a single mud hole yet! Nothing like a paved road!” The line crackles and Radar imagines Henry leaning up against the phone booth. “Shoot, Radar, what did Pierce say to you that's got you worked up? You're making me nervous!”

“Uh, he just, uh,” Radar wishes he hadn't brought it up, but he can't write this sort of thing in a letter.

“Come on, Radar, out with it!” 

“It's about Nancy Sue.”

“Oh. Oh boy.” Radar leans into the phone, now Henry's voice is barely a whisper.

“He just- uh, y’know, I don't wanna be a big joke.”

“Gee, Radar, that's- you're not a big joke. I'm a big joke, that was- uh, not my finest moment.”  
Radar shivers again and wishes the wire could reach his cot so he could huddle away from the draft and avoid the occasional icy drip that came from the ceiling. “I don't wanna get left behind like Hawkeye.”

“Hey look, Radar, that's not gonna happen. Look, Nancy Sue was- oh lord, I was overcompensating, I guess.”

“You were what?”

Henry mutters something under his breath before saying, “I was trying to feel like a man, I guess, oh god, that sounds awful. Radar, look, that didn't mean anything, okay? You figured yourself out pretty easily, and I- well I didn't as much. So I made a mistake, a big one, but now… Radar, you really mean something to me and I was scared of that.”

Radar chews the nail on his pointer finger, he feels a bit sick. He trusts Henry, but this is weighing on him, the weeks when mail was slow let doubt settle in his chest. 

“You still there, Radar?” Henry's voice is stronger now, the rain seems to be dying down there.

“Yeah.”

“Look, I don't expect anything from you, I don't even expect you to see me again. But if you do, that's all I want, I just want to have you around, y’know?” Radar jumps when a drop of water splashes onto his face and runs down his temple. “Oh boy, listen to me, gettin’ all soppy.”

Radar smiles a bit, “No offense, you were always soppy.”

Henry laughs, “’Suppose I am, gee, I sure wrote a whole lot of goodbye notes in Korea.”

“I still have the one where you called me a swell egg,” 

“Oh hell, Radar, please throw that away. That's just embarrassing.” Henry is laughing again, Radar can imagine him fiddling nervously with something, maybe with a button on his shirt or the quarters in his pockets, Henry's hands were never still. “Well, no more goodbye notes for me.”

“Would you come to Iowa to visit me?” 

“’Course, Radar,” Henry says, “Maybe Ottumwa needs a new GP.”

Radar's heart skips a beat, “Yeah, maybe.” There's a long pause and he opens his mouth a few times to start a sentence before finally saying, “It's nice living on a farm.”

“I bet,” Henry seems to be just as much at a loss for words as Radar is. “Radar, I-”

Click.

Radar drops the receiver on the desk in defeat. He feels better in some ways but he's not sure he'll be able to wake up in the morning. He stands and drags himself over to his cot, collapsing into it. The mattress is already cold and he almost wishes he could sleep in his now warm chair. But after a few moments he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I hit my stride a bit better in this chapter! I’ve really enjoyed writing this so far and I’m so happy to see people reading it! Thank you guys so so much!!


	3. Chapter 3

His hands are trembling when he opens the package. Radar folds the plain brown paper neatly, the box under his bed is becoming cluttered with empty envelopes and letters that he's read probably a hundred times each now, but he can't bring himself to throw even this scrap out. He tucks the paper away before passing his hand over the box of cigars.

He'd written Henry for them, he feels his face get hot with delayed embarrassment. He had written a short standard reply but Radar knows that if Henry were here he would never hear the end of it. He doesn't mean to be so sentimental but the office feels less and less like Henry everyday, the liquor cabinet was cleared of his booze months ago. Radar has an empty bottle of scotch in his box, the last of the old supply. And the tent that Henry slept in no longer smells like his aftershave, Radar would ask for that if he had the courage but it's too embarrassing. He wishes that he could write Henry like BJ writes his wife and ask for scraps of his life to keep here in Korea. He doesn't send Henry any packages, even if Henry asked for something Radar isn't sure he'd send it. Everything here seems tainted, he's scared of passing the curse off to Henry.

Sending letters seems like a curse in a way. But Radar can't tell if it's because the letters are from Korea, or if he himself is the curse.

He finally tears open the carton of cigars and pulls one out, he puts the rest into his box and kicks it back under the bunk. It takes Radar a few tries to light the cigar but when he finally does he takes a long slow drag and holds the hot air in his lungs as long as he can before breathing out. He coughs, it's the first time he's smoked in a while and he overdid it. The embarrassment was worth it though, the tobacco makes him lightheaded and the smoke reminds him so much of Henry that for a moment Radar thinks he can feel his presence again. 

He rests the cigar in an ashtray he'd swiped from Colonel Potter’s desk and sets it on the floor beside his bunk. Radar curls up on his side and pulls the blanket over himself. The smoke rising up from the floor reminds him of the incense that Father Mulcahy burns sometimes during Mass. Radar likes to go to those services even if he isn't a Catholic, he feels like he is witnessing a miracle when the mess tent no longer reeks of onions and coffee. 

Radar knows the colonel is walking across the compound but he still flinches when door to his office bangs open. Boots cross the floor quickly but stop in the middle of the room.

“Son?”

Radar sits up, “Yes, sir?” He should've known better, there is still light in the sky, it is too early to be able to do something like this undisturbed. But he had helped in OR for most of last night and all morning today and he is exhausted after mail call. All he wanted was some rest and time alone. He could’ve had that if Henry were here, then Radar could’ve hidden in his tent for an hour or so while Henry stayed in the office, pretending he didn’t know where the clerk was if anyone asked to used the phone. People tended to believe slow and trustworthy Henry.

Potter’s hands are clasped behind his back and he eyes the smoldering cigar in the ashtray. “You smoking that, Radar?”

“Uh,” Radar looks down and grabs the ashtray, he smothers the ember quickly, feeling as though he's been caught. Potter has no way of knowing exactly what Radar is doing but he has the tone of a suspicious father and it flusters him. “No, sir, I wasn't smoking or anything.”

Potter rocks forward on his toes, “Shame, smells like a good cigar.”

Radar adjusts his glasses on his nose, “Need something, sir?” He asks politely.

“I want to finish dictating those messages to I Corps, I know you need rest, Radar, it'll only be a moment.”

“Oh! It's no problem, sir!”

“Good!” Potter walks through the doors into his office. Radar breathes in the smoke once more before following him.  
By the time they're finished Radar can barely keep his eyes open, pressing the keys of the typewriter has become a monumental task. He knows he'll have to go back and correct the reports in the morning, he has enough trouble spelling when he is wide awake. Potter seems unbothered by the hour and is finishing his own cigar while staring out the small dusty windows. Radar can't imagine he can see anything, the night has set in and they've got black-out orders for the next few days while enemy artillery is in the area. 

Radar rests his head on his palm and dozes for a minute while the colonel thinks to himself.

“Got something on your mind, Radar?”

He snaps awake, “Huh?”

“You seem distracted, son, I didn't hear so much as a peep out of you this whole time, sure you spelled everything alright?”  
“Oh. Um, no, sir, just tired. I- I mean, ‘no,’ as in there's nothing on my mind not, ‘no,’ as in I spelled everything alright, I think.”

“Mm,” Colonel Potter takes another drag on his cigar and lets the ash fall on the floor.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Radar.”

“You ever feel real guilty about something that you might or might not’ve done?”

Potter looks thoughtful before he turns to look at Radar, “You know, son, sounds like you might need a padre.” Radar will never get used to the way that Colonel Potter peers over his glasses at him, he is always looking down at him. It's not malicious or anything, but Henry, despite his height, always seemed to be looking up at him, peering from beneath that bucket hat, soft blue eyes.

Radar swallows, “It’s nothing like that, sir,” he starts, “I just don't wanna make this somebody sad.” The colonel scratches his eyebrow with his thumbnail. “Do you think that Mrs. Potter is sad when she gets a letter from you?”

Potter seems to think about this for a moment. “Well, you know I think there is a real difference between being sad and missin’ someone, the missus would be sad if I didn't write.”

Radar pretends he understands and chews on his chapped lip. “But doesn't you, sir, being here and not there make her sad?”  
Potter sighs, “Well, son, sometimes being sad is part of loving someone.”

They're silent for a moment, Potter takes another drag. Radar fiddles with the loose H on his typewriter. 

“Sir, is there somethin’ you're thinking about?” Mail call had been a sullen affair with him the last few weeks. Radar is giving into temptation a bit, it took a lot of self control for him not to fall into old habits, especially since Mrs. Potter’s stationary happened to be very thin. It doesn't help that Colonel Potter is much harder to read than his wife’s handwriting.

The room is silent, Potter purses his lips and Radar thinks he might just get an answer. But instead Potter cracks the knuckles on his left hand with his thumb and bothers his wedding band for a moment. “Not more than usual, Radar.”

Radar's shoulders slump, he’s sure that it'll be another week like this until Major Houlihan can snap the colonel out of it, but Radar isn't sure he can make it another week.

Potter sniffs, “Now let’s get some sleep, it's too late in the night to be asking big questions. Spelling is one thing.” He goes to snuff out the butt of his cigar. His hand pauses over empty air and he stares at the place where an ashtray should be.

Colonel Potter looks across the desk at Radar with disapproving eyes. Radar stares back at him for a moment, confused.

“Oh!”

Potter raises his eyebrows.

“Sorry, sir!” Radar stands and rushes into the exterior office. He picks up the ashtray and shoves the remains of the unsmoked cigar into his pocket before hurrying back into Potter’s office. He places the little round tray on the desk and the colonel crushes the butt into it. 

“Help me up, Radar,” he says, “my knees aren't what they used to be.”

“Yessir,” Radar lets Potter grab onto his forearm and he pulls him carefully out of the chair.

Potter straightens up and pats Radar’s arm. “Don't stay up too late, Radar,” he says over his shoulder as he walks out of the room. 

Radar tidies up the desk and turns out the light before he makes his way through the doors and to his bunk. He strips to his undershirt and boxers and climbs into the cot. The wind outside is picking up and he thinks of the letters under his bed, and if he will leave them in Korea.

***

Radar slams down the phone in his Tokyo hotel room, he thinks about tearing the cord from the wall. He didn't get any sleep last night and now the aftermath of the party next door is keeping him up. Distressed moans and retching seem to be right next to his ear as he lays on the bed. Not to mention Klinger’s constant calls. He wonders if Sparky feels this way at times.

The man next door retches again and Radar’s stomach flips, so much for R&R, he hasn't even had a drink. It’s just been one thing after another, first the colonel’s wife and now the generator. Radar’s stomach has been in knots for the past three days and he can't figure out why, but he knows that his flight is in three hours. The thought of the wide blue Sea of Japan with a plane from Kimpo at the very bottom has him in a cold sweat. He breaths out and rolls onto his side, clutching at the pillow. It's got to be the generator that's got him worked up, it's just gotta be.

Or maybe it's that he hasn't gotten a letter from Henry in weeks. Not that Henry’s all to blame, Radar has been trying to start a letter for almost a month and every day he doesn't write he feels worse. Henry probably thinks he’ll never hear from him again and maybe he's trying to move on already. Maybe he's already gotten over Radar.  
Radar sits up and takes the pad of paper from his nightstand.

_“Dear, Henry,”_

Solid start.

The phone rings and Radar can feel it in his skull. He stares at it for a few seconds before he puts down the notepad and stands up. His bag is already packed and the phone continues to ring as Radar dresses. He adjusts his cap and tie in the mirror and slings his duffel bag over his shoulder. It can't hurt to get an early start to the airport. The phone is still ringing when Radar slams the door of the hotel room behind him. 

He catches a whiff of alcohol and something sickly sweet from the direction of the room that hosted the party and his stomach churns again. He swallows thickly and tries to focus on writing this letter in his head. 

_“I'm sorry I haven't written in a while.”_

Radar makes his way down the hallway and takes the stairs down to the lobby. It's bustling with dozens of sailors on shore leave, he's bumped and jostled the whole way to the door. The air outside is warm and fresh and Radar takes a moment to enjoy the sun while he hails a cab. The man who pulls up nods furiously when Radar shouts, “Airport!”

He tosses his duffel bag into the car and hops in after it. The car is moving before he even has time to close the door. It's hot and stuffy inside and it does nothing for his nausea. The strip passes quickly, he hadn't had time for sightseeing, he supposes this'll have to do.

_“Things have been alright here, I spent some time in Tokyo, spring there is real nice.”_

The car bumps along and Radar clutches at his stomach. He doesn't understand it, sure he'd been nervous getting on the plane to Tokyo, but he hadn't made himself sick over it. He tries to swallow down the rising lump in his throat and watches the countryside pass him by. The hills are steep and neatly terraced. 

In Iowa the grass is probably already tall and bright green, the corn too. He's jealous of the farmers they pass, tending their fields. If he could, that’s what he’d do on his R&R, not sit cooped up in a little hotel room, sleeping in sheets that reek of cheap cigarettes and going to the same restaurant every night because walking past the working girls on the other side of the street makes him nervous. 

_“I hope you have gone fishing, you said you had been too busy last time you wrote.”_

He can see the hangars in the distance and he rolls down the window. The smell of fuel is heavy in the air already. The driver shouts something at him, Radar can't understand him but he gets the gist of it and rolls the window back up. The sky is clear and perfect for flying, he wonders if clear skies make it easier for anti-aircraft guns too. 

Radar tries to block those thoughts out again and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. He opens it and thumbs through the bills, to his relief he still has enough cash for the cab ride. He still feels on edge though, he wonders if there's a sudden storm coming, or maybe he's just fatigued. He'll have to try to sleep on the plane. 

_“Thank you for the cigars, they were just as nice as I remember, I was sad to see them go.”_

They pull up to the front gate and a guard waves them through when the cab driver shows him a pass. They weave between the dusty aluminum buildings for a few minutes before the driver stops and turns around in his seat. He holds his hand out, palm up, to Radar.

“Fifteen dollars,” he says with confidence.

Radar counts out the bills and slaps them gratefully into the driver’s hand, “Thanks.”

He opens the door and hauls out his bag, the driver is off again before Radar can shut the door behind him, it slams closed with the force of the acceleration. Radar coughs and waves the dust out of his face. He turns and walks into the hangar, the fans inside nearly blow his hat off when he pushes through the doors. Radar takes it off and tucks it beneath his arm.  
He lugs his bag over to the desk where a tall airman is leaning against the wall.

“Uh, I'm here for the eleven o’clock to Kimpo,” he says, “It’s, uh, Corporal O’Reilly.”

The airman raises his eyebrows and looks down at his manifest, he turns the page. “Ah, yes, O’Reilly. You're early.”

“Yeah.”

“Plane’s delayed.”

“What?”

The airman flips the manifest page down again, “Plane’s been delayed.” He emphasizes the last syllable through his teeth.

“Oh. Oh, well, how long?”

The airman shrugs, Radar’s shoulders slump, but his stomach relaxes a little, it was just a delay he'd been predicting. 

“I guess I'll just wait here then.”

“You do that,” replies the airman indifferently.

Radar drags his bag over to the bench. He takes out a rolled up shirt and places it on the bench before he lays down on the seat with the shirt tucked under his head. He puts his cap over his face. He figures he might as well get some rest and somehow this is more comfortable than the hotel bed.

_“I miss you very much and I haven't forgotten about you. I love you.”_

He'll have to edit that part out.

***

When he's talking to her all Radar can think about is how maybe this will solve his problems, solve Henry's problems too. Maybe he can meet her after the war in Lancaster and Henry will stay in Bloomington with his wife and kids. Henry will never have to think about Korea ever again, he won't have Radar there as a constant reminder. Maybe Henry will be happier without him, happier without having to wait for letters wondering if it's all over. 

Radar can see himself being in love with her, she's pretty and smart and maybe it would work. Maybe one day he really would fall in love with her the way he did Henry. He tears a bit of skin off his lip with his teeth and it bleeds, she doesn't seem to notice, he's grateful for that. 

She grew up a lot like him, on a farm, in a small town, she's got six brothers and sisters though and for some reason she wanted to be in Korea. He’d never even heard of Korea until he’d gotten his orders. She's so much smarter than him and he's awestruck by it. He hopes she knows what a wonderful person she is.

Radar is upset when the airman calls for him, when he demands that Radar get on that plane to Kimpo. He wants to know the answer, he wants to spend more time with her and figure this out.

Because maybe he could love Patty Haven.

He kisses her before he leaves. And when Radar is crushed between his duffel bag and the seat of a sideways jeep hundreds of feet above the Sea of Japan he knows the answer.

He could never love Patty Haven. Not like he loves Henry Blake.

And he feels guilty for ever expecting someone to fix his problems like that, because that isn't her job. It isn't anyone's job but his. It's cold in the cargo hold and he tries not to think about the thin sheet of metal between him and empty air.

He’ll call Henry when he gets back to camp and say he's sorry for being silent for so long. And then when he gets back to Ottumwa, whenever that will be, Radar decides he'll call Patty and apologize to her too. And he'll tell her she's wonderful instead of just thinking it and tell her that she deserves someone that really appreciates just how smart she is. She probably already knows that though. Radar presses his face into his duffel bag and falls into a restless sleep. 

He wishes he hadn't less than an hour later when the plane slams into the runway and the top of his head smashes into the jeep door above him. Radar tries not to fall over as the plane bumps along the tarmac. It finally comes to a shuddering stop but he swears he can still feel the vibrations of the landing gear in his bones. He collects himself and waits for the cargo door to be opened. 

The crew of airmen look unimpressed when Radar stumbles out of the plane with his bag and tries shake the aching out of his knees. They watch him with their dirty hands in the pockets of their flight suits. One of them has a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, Radar wonders how he can smoke in the stifling air. Someone shouts across the airfield and the airmen shuffle past him and into the cargo hold to begin unloading. 

He wanders the dusty airport for a few moments, trying to get his bearings, the sun makes him feverish after being in the freezing plane for so long. He's lucky enough to find a sergeant headed to Uijeongbu and hands him his last four dollars. The sergeant stuffs the bills into his front shirt pocket and rolls his eyes. Radar tries to ignore this and climbs in the back seat. His tongue feels swollen and overly warm in his mouth and he sniffs, his nose is running and he hopes that he hasn't caught a cold from the flight.

When he's forced out of the jeep and looks down the road at the last few miles to the 4077th he thinks for just a moment that he won't call Henry today, instead he should just sleep. Henry can wait just a little longer. But Radar knows that if he doesn't call Bloomington tonight that he might never.

An ox cart pulls up beside him just when he's about to throw his perfume soaked duffel bag down and wait for an ambulance to pass by and the old man on top of it shouts down at him. Radar looks up and the man points at the back of the cart, he's smiling widely, exposing his tobacco stained front teeth. Radar was never in the Boy Scouts but he's always been smart enough to take that motto to heart. He reaches into his bag and tosses the man a carton of cigarettes, one of the few things he has left that isn't damp and oily from the crushed bottle.

The ox driver smiles again and Radar walks around to the back of the cart, he tosses up his bag and heaves himself up onto the rickety boards. The ride is dusty and he's sweating profusely under his Class A jacket. He thinks about his first jeep ride to the MASH 4077, when he was shaking the whole time, a feeling of dread bunched up in his stomach. He knew something was just over the ridge, he didn't know what quite yet. 

He can't really remember how he got there, some corpsman must've told him to find the CO. And then he'd been standing in that office with his left hand shoved deep in the pocket of his trousers and a plainly handsome officer wearing a dumpy fishing vest was smiling at him from behind a desk cluttered with paper.

He wasn't what Walter, he hadn't been branded yet, had expected. The only thing he really knew about officers was that they liked to gnash their teeth at him when he fumbled a salute at basic training. Walter realized he hadn't saluted, his right hand was still gripping his overstuffed pack. 

The colonel chewed the skin on his pointer finger as he read Walter’s file. “O’Reilly, right?” He glanced back up at him.

Walter suddenly realized where he was and tried to untangle his right hand from the straps of his pack, “Uh, right, sir!” He bumped his eyeglasses when he finally managed a crooked salute. He held his breath and drew himself up almost his tiptoes, this was supposed to be the real deal and here he was, still hiding his hand in his pocket.

Henry Blake, at least that what the sign outside said, smiled, “Put that down, where do you think we are, the Army?” He laughed at his own joke.

Walter lowered his hand slowly, that's exactly where he thought he was, but he didn't argue. Blake stood and Walter realized just how tall he was, he shifted uncomfortably in his boots, this sort of thing was just this luck.

“Well, I'll leave you to it,” he gestured to the desk, “Just, uh- sort it, y’know?”

Walter wasn't quite sure what to make of that question, was it an order, or? Besides, sort it where? The file cabinets were overflowing with crumpled papers. 

Blake stepped forward from behind the desk and patted his shoulder, “Good to have some help around here.”

Before he made it to the door Walter’s stomach dropped, he spun around, “Uh, sir, something's coming.”

The colonel turned and looked him up and down, “What?”

“I dunno, but uh-something over the ridge, it's headed right for us.”

Henry Blake stared at him wide-eyed, “Are you some kinda Section Eight?” He leaned forward into Walter’s face, clearly searching for some sort of crazed look behind the thick eyeglasses. Walter was sure that if Blake caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the lenses he might just find it. “‘Cause boy is there a long line to-” 

The sound of helicopters overhead stopped him, he straightened and looked up at the ceiling stunned. Then he looked back down at Walter, “Well, I’ll be damned. Neat trick,” he said before rushing out of the office and leaving Walter in the center of one big clerical error, pretty similar to the one he's sitting in now. 

Radar feels like crying, he was gone a week, and now the office is such a mess that it'll take a month to fix it all. On top of that he’s still sick to his stomach. He rubs at his eyes under his glasses, he figures he might as well have a soda before he starts and he drags himself out of the office, across the humid compound, and into the officers’ club.

The Nehi is warm and syrupy, it doesn't get much worse than this. He hasn't even attempted to call Henry yet and he's not looking forward to the hours long transfers. Radar just hopes he can figure out something to say to Henry that’ll make it worth it.

There’s a steady hand on his shoulder and Radar turns to see Colonel Potter behind him. Radar would've asked what the problem was now if he didn't already know, if he didn't already hear him turning the words over and over in his head trying to find a way to say them to Radar. 

His face feels numb as they cross the compound and Potter leads Radar into his office and sits him down in the chair behind the desk before placing the phone in his hand.

“It's your mother.” He says quietly, Radar nods, and Potter leaves the room. 

“Hi, Ma,” he whispers into the phone.

And it’s so good to hear her voice again when she softly replies, “Oh Walter. I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Ma, is everything alright?” That feels like a stupid question to ask but it just tumbles out. 

She laughs quietly on the other end, “Everything’s alright, Walter.” When his father died, he remembers her laughing with their relatives and telling quiet jokes at the wake. He doesn't know how much of that was for him or for herself. 

“Was it?”

“It was quiet, Walter, pneumonia, you know how those things are, but he's better now, y’hear?” That's what she'd told him when Pa died, that he was sick and now he was all better. She couldn't have known it but for the longest time that had made him mad. Radar just couldn't understand why his Pa got to feel better when everyone else was sad about him, especially Ma.  
Radar swallows down the whimper in his throat and wipes his eyes, he's gotta be stronger than this, he can't cry on the phone with Ma, and he can't go in that office with everybody in it crying either. 

“Yeah, Ma,” he clears his throat, “How's the farm?”

“It’ll be hard, y’know, but it's about time I got off my fat butt and put in some work ‘round here. Nothin’ I've never done before though.”

“Ma, why don't you call some of the cousins?”

“No, no, Walter, Eddy hired a man to drive the tractor this season, ‘suppose the good Lord told him to do that, He will always provide.” 

“Sure, Ma. When's the funeral? Can I send something to help?”

“Don't you worry now, Pastor McCarthy has already been by, the funeral is tomorrow and heavens if I haven't gotten all the pies in town, you know how the ladies of the congregation are,” she titters. “Now, Walter, you be good and careful, everyone's prayin’ for you back home.”

Radar closes his eyes and shifts uncomfortably, “I know, Ma.”

“I love you, Walter, take care.”

“Love you too, Ma.” The line clicks almost immediately, his mother is really something else. He stands and realizes how much better his stomach feels.

It takes a while to chase them out but when everyone has left the office Radar picks up his headset and cranks the radio, he waits a few moments until he hears the connection.

“Hey, Sparky! Sorry it's late, I need you to put through a call for me, it's life or death.”

“You got it, Radar, where to? And sorry about that generator earlier, I'm sure it'll turn up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he's still a bit miffed but he brushes it off, “I gotta get through to Bloomington, Illinois.”

“Bloomington? I dunno, Radar, not sure how fast I can patch you through.”

“Hey, you said you were sorry about the generator! Consider this part of your apology,”

He can hear Sparky cursing good-naturedly as he does his part on the other end of the line, “Looks like I can get you to Chicago, you lucky dog, but you're on your own after that.”

“Hey thanks, Sparky, I owe ya one,” 

“You always do,” the line is disconnected and Radar waits for the operator to pick up.

It's easy to hop towns to Bloomington, but his nerves are frayed by the time the operator dials the number he gives her. It's three o’clock in the afternoon there, but he can't even be sure Henry is home. He sniffs when the line begins to ring, he just has to hold it together a little longer. He jumps when the phone is picked up. 

“Hello?” It's a woman's voice and Radar's heart skips a beat.

“I- uh- I'm calling for Co- er, Dr. Blake? Henry?” 

“Oh! Who is this? Are you an old patient?”

Radar blanches, he'd practiced lines for this but he can't remember a word of them now. “Uh, no, I'm her- or his patient’s son, I'm calling about records. Uh, patient’s records?”

“Of course, dear!” He blushes deeply when she calls him that, “I'll get him for you, hold tight!” 

Radar imagines a peppy blonde woman pressing the receiver to her chest and calling down the hall, he can almost hear her big smile over the phone. The line crackles for a bit and he can hear muffled voices, then a door shutting.

“Henry Blake,” he nearly sings it into the phone, “What can I do ya for?”

“Henry-”

“Radar! Boy, am I glad to hear your voice! It's been pretty- Oh gee, Radar, don't go crying now, it's only been a few weeks!” But it's too late now, Radar is sobbing into the receiver and he just can't stop, not even to take a breath. “You're gonna get me worked up, y’know, Lorraine’s gonna think it's weird if I start crying into patient files.”

Radar sniffs a few more times and he can hear Henry fumbling with something glass, probably scotch this early in the afternoon. “Sorry, Henry,” he manages to choke out around hiccups.

“Just take a deep breath,” Henry says warmly, there's a pause and a gulp. “Now what exactly is going on? Is it Babette? You know they just don't live very long, Radar, they're just little things.”

“It's not her,” Radar sniffs again, he takes off his glasses and scrubs at his face with his sleeve.

“Take your time, Radar,” Henry whispers into the phone. Radar can tell he's getting choked up too.

Radar swallows, “Uncle Ed just died-”

“Oh, Radar,”

“-and I'm coming home, Colonel Potter is getting me a hardship discharge, I just filled it out.” There’s a long pause, for a moment Radar thinks they've been disconnected. “Henry?”

“That's… That's great,” Henry sounds far away.

“You don't sound-”

“I'm happy, Radar, more than happy, I'm just about to cry I'm so happy, in fact, but are you okay? Your Uncle Ed, he… He was like your father…”

“Yeah,” Radar thinks he's going to cry again, he grits his teeth and tries not to whimper into the receiver. 

“You can cry, y’know, if it makes you feel better. Just know I'll probably start up if you do.”

Radar laughs between the hiccups, “No, I'm okay, I promise.”

“Alright then, Radar.”

“Did you mean it? When you said you'd see me in Ottumwa?”

“Of course I did, Radar, I wouldn't lie to you, not that I can anyways, you probably know all the lies I tell myself.” Radar can hear scotch being sloshed into a tumbler and a pause when Henry takes a swig.

“Would you see me at the airport?”

“Does Ottumwa have an airport?”

“Now that's just plain mean,” Radar huffs, “It’s not the middle of nowhere or anything, y’know?”

“Right, sorry. ‘Course I will, Radar.” Henry pauses and takes a deep breath, “Do you want me to? You know?” Another sip from the glass. 

“I know what?”

“You know, uh, oh geez, the farm, Radar, do you want me to go back to the farm with you?”

Radar's ears burn, “Would you really?”

“Well, yeah, Radar, but only if you really want me to.”

“I really do. Would you stay too?”

“For as long as you want, Radar, I promise,” Henry sniffs loudly, “Oh, what about your mother though?”

“Oh boy, I hadn't really thought of that!” Radar runs his free hand through his hair, “Guess I better send her a telegram, huh?”  
“What are you gonna tell her, Radar? It'd look pretty strange bringing me back as a souvenir.”

“You can set up your practice there! My ma knows the whole congregation and they always say they're looking for a new doctor.”

“Radar, they say that because the only doctor in town doesn't go to the right church!”

“Well then we’ll go to the right one, maybe… Not every Sunday, but for the ones that count! Look, it won't matter! As long as you pay rent and help out a bit Ma will be happy to have you around! It's been quiet in the house since the cousins moved out, she needs help with the chores.” 

There's silence as Henry thinks this over, “You sure about this, Radar?” Radar doesn't answer and Henry seems to understand, “Well, I guess it's only Ottumwa, not like old women here don't already whisper behind my back, you think you know people but lemme tell you, country clubs are worse than knitting circles.” 

Radar laughs quietly and Henry hums thoughtfully for a moment, “I guess I'll see you soon then?”

“Guess you will, promise you'll be there?”

“Radar…”

“I'll see you soon.” There's a long pause and Radar isn't sure if he should say it.

“Hang up now, Radar,” Henry says gently.

“Oh, right, right,” he takes a deep breath, “I love you.” He hangs up quickly before Henry even has a chance to respond. He feels guilty again, burdening Henry with that sort of emotion, he can’t help but worry that Henry feels some sort of obligation to him. He tries to offset this feeling by thinking of the excitement in Henry's voice when he answers Radar's calls. Besides, in all the time they were together Radar had never once heard Henry have a thought like that. The trouble is, he hasn't heard Henry's thoughts in nearly two years, he's been stuck alone with his own. After a few minutes of worrying and nearly falling asleep he cranks the radio again.

“Long time no see, Radar,” Sparky quips, “Didja get to Bloomington?”

“I did, gotta send a telegram now,”

“You're lucky I don't ask for time and a half, whatcha got?”

“It's to Ottumwa, to my Ma, still got the address?”

“Yup. Shoot,”

“Uh, Dear, Ma, I'm coming home, got my discharge, be there in a week. Don't worry about getting me, got a friend meeting me at the airport. He’s called Henry Blake, he’s a, uh, doctor and he'll stay with us a bit and help out on the farm. I love you, see you soon, Walter. Stop.”

“Alright, I'll get that out,” Sparky says, “You really going home, Radar?”

“Sure am,”

“Send me a postcard, would ya? I'm gonna miss you, ‘specially if I got to deal with that Klinger.”

“I'll straighten him out, Sparky, promise.” 

“Take care, Radar.”

“You too, Sparky.” The line clicks and Radar thinks about how he's never even seen Sparky’s face but he's crying because he might never hear that voice again. He wipes his eyes and turns off the lamp. When he crawls into his cot he realizes just how unfamiliar Iowa will be. Radar knows every general by name and has a fairly good idea of how they look from the way they scream at him over the phone but he can't recall the faces of the women that Ma plays bridge with every Wednesday. He can walk the compound blindfolded, in fact, he has, even if he can't entirely remember why. Hawkeye, Trapper, and some very sweet punch at one of their parties had something to do with it though. Radar's not sure he'll be able to find the fuse box in a thunderstorm like he used to.

His breaths are short and panicked and he thinks about what Hawkeye said to him in the mess tent. Radar isn't sure he's in Iowa anymore, and he doesn't know if he will ever make it back.

***

The next day brings very little relief. If anything it only solidifies Radar’s notion of staying. And when still no generator appears despite Klinger’s near constant occupation of the phone and he has to intervene Radar knows he has to stay. 

While he's squinting through the headlights of the jeeps, his eyes watering from the diesel in the air, he thinks that Korea is the only place in the world he'll ever do any good. Ma can take care of the farm for now, and when they’re old enough his cousins can have it. It doesn't matter to him, that farm is not the same as the OR. He won't save any lives there, he'll just grow corn and wheat and break up a perfectly good marriage. It's selfish to go home and take what wasn't ever his in the first place.

Radar coughs, the mask does nothing to stop the fumes. The doctors are wrapping up surgery, everyone is getting extra antibiotics tonight. They were lucky it wasn't a windy night but you can't ever be too careful when sepsis is involved. When they get the patients inside Radar slips into the scrub room and tosses his white coat into the hamper. There's no blood on it, he hadn't even touched a single patient, but just like with dust and wind you can't ever be too careful.

The doctors and nurses scrub their hands and change into their fatigues, a few of them pat him on the back again, he's sick of saying, “thank you,” and he's stopped saying, “I'll miss you too.” Hawkeye has been cracking jokes to no one all night. He says something mildly funny about gas station attendants while he fastens his belt but everyone ignores him, not even Hawkeye laughs at his own joke. Radar wonders if Hawkeye is getting stuck too. 

As Colonel Potter leaves the building Radar trails after him, he doesn't want to talk to Potter where someone might hear so he stays a good distance behind him. By the time he catches up to him the colonel is already sitting at his desk, flipping absently through papers in a manila folder. Radar wavers for a moment, he doesn't necessarily want to say this out loud to Potter. He wonders if he could just reverse the discharge and carry on without anyone saying anything when he doesn't leave. Maybe they'd just thank their lucky stars instead and leave him alone.

He knows that's wishful thinking and when Radar tells Potter he doesn't look surprised. He tells Radar off, of course, but Radar knows that in a way Potter feels like they are very much the same. Both of them bound to the Army by some sort of compulsion to perform a duty. Not necessarily for any country, or even for countrymen. For Potter it was more a penance for leaving his home behind, chasing adventure, Radar thinks Potter is just running away from change. He supposes he is too, Uncle Ed won't be there anymore, Ma will be working again, nothing will be how it was when he left it. Korea, however, is stagnant.

Potter tells him to sleep on it before he leaves for his tent, but instead of sleeping Radar is battling operators all the way to Bloomington again. It's nearly eight o’clock Illinois time, the hour doesn't really matter where Radar is though, he isn't getting any rest tonight. Henry is probably in his office having a brandy, Radar just hopes he's quicker to pick up the phone this time. 

“Hello? Do you have any idea what time it is?” The sound of Henry's voice on the other end is Radar's only stroke of luck this entire awful day. 

“Hiya, Henry,” he almost whispers. Telling Colonel Potter he had decided to stay seems like a cake walk now.

“Oh! Radar! I thought you were one of those marketing folks that’re always calling around. Isn't it kinda late there?”

“I'm not leaving,” Radar says this as quickly as he can, he doesn't want to give himself time to think about it.

“You know, I was thinking, do you think you could catch a train? I know it's a long way through Russia, but maybe it's safer, don't know what you'd do once you got to, y’know, the other side though.”

“Henry, I'm not leaving!”

There's a long pause, “Sorry, Radar, could you repeat that? I think there's something funny with the connection.” Henry laughs nervously.

“I'm not going back to Ottumwa, I'm staying here, in Korea.”

Another long pause. “I was worried that's what you said… Does Pierce know about this?”

“Not yet,”

“Well, you better go into hiding now because he's gonna kick your keister all the way to Iowa whether you like it or not.” Radar is quiet. “Why are you staying there? What’s gotten into you?”

“They need me here, Henry!”

“You know, if I were a doctor I'd say you've got a real problem.”

Radar slumps down in his chair, he wasn't looking for another fight, he had enough of those coming when the whole camp finds out. “Oh, yeah, how's that? I'm not crazy or nothing and you know that.” 

“Never said you were, but you keep trying to make room for everybody and every-blessed-thing in that heart of yours and it's gonna bite you one of these days. You crammed the farm in there, your animals in there, your ma, Pierce, Trapper, BJ, Phelan! Me! Hell, you crammed the whole camp into that chest of yours and now something's just gotta give!” 

Radar can hear Henry stand and rummage through what sounds like a whole box of glass. It's silent for a moment, Henry has found whatever he was looking for and has promptly starting drinking it.

“You know, Radar, maybe it's time you think about yourself for once.”

“I am thinking about myself, this is what I want to do!”

Henry sighs, “That doesn't mean it's what's best for you though.”

“Gee, does everyone know what's best for me?”

He can hear Henry sit down again heavily, “Radar, I- you know that's not what I mean. You know what's best for yourself, it's just that you think other people come first.”

Radar relaxes his shoulders, he's quiet as he lets himself calm down a little. “What's so wrong about that?”

“Nothing, but maybe it's time for a change.” They're quiet and Radar picks at the peeling paint on his desk. “Look, just don't let Pierce push you around tomorrow, doctors always think they know best, can't say I'm the exception.”

Radar laughs a little at this, “Henry?”

“Yeah, Radar?”

“If I were to, uh, decide to leave, would you be there? I'm not saying I am leaving, but if I were to, you know…”

“I'd be there. I love you, you know that.”

Radar swallows, “Yeah, I know.” For the first time in a long time, he really does. 

He figures that's why he got into the jeep when it pulled into camp at the end of the day, why he didn't just hunker down in pre-op and do his job. It was surreal walking into that hangar at Kimpo again and in Tokyo he thinks about how he will probably only ever see two foreign countries in his life and he'd managed to have a pretty awful time both. Maybe he and Henry will go to Canada for the next war, his oldest cousin was having a swell time there according to his mother.

Radar is glad not to have to sit near a window on the plane to San Francisco, on his first flight to Tokyo, more than two years ago he'd looked down and couldn't tell the sky from the sea. Back then it'd only made him dizzy, now he thinks he'd probably faint. 

There’s nothing over the ridge anymore, Radar knows this, and there is no unexplained dread in his chest. But he keeps thinking he should've known about the plane that Henry was supposed to be on, he should've called his ma when he couldn't find a reason for the twist in his stomach. He doesn't know what scares him more, the thought of falling out of the sky, or an empty airport in Ottumwa. That's why his knuckles are white and he won't sleep the whole way to San Francisco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me forever, unfortunately, thank you for waiting patiently, I have other parts written so the updates should be faster. I really appreciate anyone reading this!! I'm a little less happy with this chapter, but I'm excited to start finishing the rest of this!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small switch to Henry's POV! Sorry for the incredibly long pause, I lost the guts to post this story for a bit, but I've regained my confidence especially since I like this chapter so much!

Henry has corrected his slouch about fifty times in the last hour but the stiff wooden chair in hallway of the Ottumwa terminal is doing him no favors. He tilts his head back and rests it on the wall behind him. The ceiling above him is peeling and cobwebs travel to and from the light fixtures catching nothing more than dust. He debates standing and walking over to read the newspaper clippings on the bulletin board in front of him again. But he's done that about five times now and the clerk at the desk gave him a dirty look the last time. She's not what Henry imagines when he thinks of Iowa, in fact the clerk reminds him more of his former secretary in Bloomington than comely farm stock. A lot more severe than his secretary though, with horned black frames that seem more for show than anything by the way they ride so low on her nose. 

He stretches his legs out and tries to ignore the clerk’s glare when the heels of his shoes click loudly on the linoleum floor. The four hour drive from Bloomington to Ottumwa had felt like no time at all compared to this. Henry wishes he hadn't shown up early if the woman at the desk was just going to tell him the flight had been delayed indefinitely. The Army, apparently, had a difficult time justifying the stop in Iowa, so the plane had been held over in Omaha while they figured out what to put on it besides Radar. 

When she'd told him that the clerk looked at Henry like he was expected to leave. And he supposes at this point he could have been halfway to Omaha but with his luck he'd miss the plane and Radar's welcoming committee would be composed solely of a radio operator and the clerk whose sole job seemed to be ringing said operator in one of the hangars to see if he was still awake. 

Henry sits up a bit and tries to reread the headlines from across the hall. There's no bold print above it, but one scrap features a mangled plane resting in a cornfield, rather poor advertising Henry thinks. He wonders if Farmer Vanderpool got any money from it, or if the Navy suffered from the same filing system the Army did. He gives up after a few moments, besides he knows more about this airport than he ever cared to at this point. The Navy must have spent a few too many days on deck when they came up with the Ottumwa Naval Air Station. 

Just as he is about to stand and pace the long hall of the already crumbling building, the Navy had only left about five years ago, he thinks he can hear a faint buzzing. Henry can't tell if it's the whine of propellers or his imagination. He glances up at the clerk, she's heard it too, thankfully, and phones the radio operator. She mutters a few things into the phone all while eyeing Henry like he might be eavesdropping on sensitive information, he averts his eyes and shifts nervously.

She hangs up and turns towards him. “Plane’ll be here in a moment, mister!” She shouts, her voice reverberating in the empty building. 

Henry gives her an awkward smile, “Uh-huh, thanks.”

She stares at him a moment and Henry wonders if she's waiting for him to do something. He stands up uncomfortably and fusses with his collar for a moment. She stands as well and dusts her tweed skirt before maneuvering out from between her desk and chair and pushing through the back door out to the airfield. Henry clears his throat loudly in the empty hall. He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels a few times trying to decide exactly how to stand.

Leaning on the wall will get his coat dusty and he doesn't want to keep his hands in his pockets, they'll get damp like that. He wipes the palms of his hands on his trousers and wonders if Radar would even notice such a thing. He scuffs the toe of his shoe against the linoleum, outside there's a screech of tires on the runway. Henry sniffs and sweeps his hair off his brow, if he hurries maybe he has enough time to check his face one last time in the mirror. Probably not with his luck. 

He paces tight circles between the chair and the bulletin board instead, trying not to look at the ruined Navy plane. The thought of it ties his stomach in knots and he wishes he'd driven to Nebraska, which is ridiculous now, the plane has already landed, but they shouldn't have taken the risk. 

Henry's head snaps to the right when the door opens suddenly, a bag is slung in through the frame, someone outside grunts with the effort of the throw. Henry swallows and turns slowly. He can't just rush over even if he knows only one person could have tossed this bag in, but all Army duffels look the same and he's better safe than sorry. 

The next moment the only person it could be steps through the door, he glances down the hall to his left, then turns his head and looks towards Henry. Radar looks ragged and a bit surprised when he turns to face Henry completely. The door swings shut slowly and when the light bounces off the lenses of his glasses Henry can see they haven't been properly cleaned in a few days. Some things never change. 

Radar can barely take two steps forward before Henry has closed the distance between them. Henry almost doesn't stop when he reaches Radar, nearly bowling him over when he wraps his arms around his shoulders. Radar reaches up as far as his pinned arms will let him and clutches at Henry's suit jacket. 

Henry mentally slugs himself in the shoulder when a lump forms in his throat. He presses his face into Radar's collar and breathes in. Radar pushes back into Henry's shoulder, his cap slides off his head and hits the floor with a soft thud. Henry wants to say something but right now all he can do is mouth nonsense words into the soft skin of Radar's neck.

Radar is saying something though, he realizes, he pulls back slightly, and looks down at Radar's face, it's different somehow, Henry doesn't remember the circles under his eyes being quite so dark. 

“Call me Walter?”

Henry blinks, “What?” He sniffs, “Sorry, what? I didn't-”

“Call me Walter, would ya? Please, we’re in Iowa.” 

Henry pulls him close again and finally finds something to murmur softly into the side of his neck, “Walter,” he sighs, his lips catching on the fabric and skin, “Oh, Walter, Walter.”

He could stand like this forever, remembering what's it's like to hold someone like this, in fact that's what Henry wants to do more than anything. They both jump when the door behind Walter swings opens again and the returning clerk nearly takes a header over Walter’s neglected duffel bag. Henry grimaces when her ankle rolls sideways in her kitten heel but she catches herself and straightens up to give them a disapproving glare.

“Oh! Sorry about that ma’am!” Walter frees his arms from Henry's grasp and stoops to snatch his cap from the floor. Henry rushes forward and lifts the bag from the floor, funny how two years of a person's life can fit into an army regulation duffel.  
“Sorry, about that,” Henry says, smiling.

She frowns at him with the side of her mouth and looks at Walter, “You're the O’Reilly’s boy, right?”

“Uh, that's- that’s right, ma’am, Edna’s my ma.” Walter dusts his cap and puts it back on, the insignia is loose and tilting slightly to the right. 

“Hear she needs some help ‘round there, good to have a man around again,” when she says this she shoots another glare at Henry. She turns back to her desk and Henry gives Walter a questioning look, Walter just shrugs. 

“Uh, well, best get going, Walter.” Henry starts towards the opposite door, “Thanks a lot, ma’am,” he says over his shoulder.  
“Ah-huh,” is all they get in reply as they hurry out of the building. Henry leads the way to his cluttered light blue sedan. It's looking a bit worse for the wear he decides when he walks around the side, Walter following, and opens the rear door to toss the bag behind the passenger seat. Henry slams it close again, he cringes when another flake of paint chips off the bottom of the door, Walter doesn't seem to notice and moves past Henry to get to the passenger door.

Henry walks around the car again, examining the rust starting to creep along the chrome on the rear fender. Lorraine had been the one with a head for cars, Henry couldn’t say whether this was a Ford or a Chevrolet were it not for the four letters stamped on the very front. He opens the driver’s side door and slides comfortably into the seat. Walter is loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt as Henry starts the car. 

Henry pulls away from the red brick building and turns the car towards the road. “Uh...” he looks over at Walter.  
“Take a right,” mumbles Walter, preoccupied with the button on his jacket.

Henry does as he is told and pulls onto the road, he wonders if Walter will recognize his farm in the sea of wheat and corn. He feels Walter relax and settle down in the seat beside him. Henry is at a loss for words again, this all feels unreal, Bloomington is hundreds of miles behind him, his whole life is packed into the trunk of his car, and Walter is shyly dodging his glances in the passenger seat.

Henry stares straight ahead through the windshield. He can feel that Walter is staring at the road with him now, it's empty. The air is tense, this isn't the boy he left behind nearly two years ago. And that isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it's still different. Henry feels as if he's driving into a still color photograph, the only indication that they're moving are the white lines on the road that pass beneath the car. 

He's suddenly aware that Walter’s brown eyes are boring into him. The side of his neck heats up and Henry tightens his grip on the wheel. Henry peers over at him and Walter has a soft unreadable expression on his face, Henry knows that Walter knows why he's blushing and he feels Walter’s soft left hand brush up against his thigh. His wool suit pants are itchy and he wishes he’d worn something cotton. 

“What’re you thinking about?”

“Oh, ya know,” Henry laughs nervously.

“I'm not listening right now,”

Henry smiles, “I was thinking about when you got all those rabies shots.”

“Oh please don't bring that up, I still get woozy when I think about it.” He reaches up and clutches at his upper arm feeling the phantom pain of an aching injection. 

“Sorry, Walter, didn't mean to make you queasy,” Henry could see Walter already getting pale out of the corner of his eye.  
“S’okay,” Walter reaches up and brushes a few beads of cool sweat from his temple with his rough jacket sleeve.

“I was thinking about something Pierce said to me while I was worrying about you. He looked me straight in the eyes and reminds me that you're in a room full of patients. And they might be just the littlest bit suspicious if I crawled into bed with you.”

“He said that?” Walter says incredulously. “Do you think he knew right then?”

Henry shrugs and laughs, “Dunno, did’ya tell him after I left?”

“Uh, well, I did, but that- that means he knew almost the whole time.”

“Pierce is sharp, he probably thought something was up.”

“More like nosy,” Walter is quiet for a moment, “Would you’ve?”

“Would I’ve what, Walter?”

“Got into bed with me?”

“I wanted to more than anything.” Henry eases up on the gas and leans back as the car slows gently. Walter is staring at him, wide gray eyes behind delicate silver frames. Henry wants to kiss him.

“You can,” says Walter, he's listening now.

“I- uh-,” Henry whips his head back, there're no cars behind them and only miles of green corn on either side of them. He's lost track of time, it feels as if they've made almost no progress towards the O’Reilly farm.

Walter turns almost completely around in his seat, peering over the top searching for anyone who might be a witness. It's the first time Henry has felt completely unsafe since he returned from Korea. Suddenly there might be a different kind of enemy in the fields beside them.

Walter sits back down in his seat, “We shouldn't, someone might see.”

Henry stares at Walter and a wave of adrenaline rushes over him. “Screw ‘em,” he says, he presses hard on the gas and whips the steering wheel to the right. 

Walter gasps and grips the sides of his seat, “What the-!”

The car jolts over the side of a shallow embankment and Henry pulls the wheel to the left before they barrel into the cornfield. He slams on the brakes and jerks the clutch into park. Henry wraps his right arm around Walter’s shoulders, drawing him close. In an instant their lips are pressed together, Henry's eyelids flutter, his heart feels like it’s between beats and is all the way up in his throat.

Walter’s lips are warm and chapped, his fingers scramble for a hold on Henry's suit jacket. They come away from each other when the strain of leaning over the clutch becomes too much. Walter lets out a breath, the humid air fogging his glasses, he giggles. Now Henry’s laughing too, he attempts to tuck his left leg beneath himself for leverage as he presses his face into Walter's soft hair. Walter seems to be trying to burrow into Henry’s neck, his cheeks are rough with stubble and it makes Henry's skin sting. He'd shaved in the airport bathroom waiting for Walter, fussing over stray hairs on his chin and upper lip.  
“Boy, do I love you,” Walter sighs into Henry's neck. His breath is hot on the skin.

Henry presses a kiss into his hair, “I love you too.”

A car roars past and all the blood rushes out of Henry’s face, he instinctively hides Walter's head in his chest. For a moment he stares up at the road, his ears burning.

“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” Henry mutters and lets go of Walter who's trembling now. Henry shifts gears as quick as he can and stomps on the gas, the engine growls on the slope but the next second their car is racing down the dusty highway again.

“Do ya think they saw us?” Walter asks, his voice shrill with panic, he wrings the loose fabric of his uniform pants.

“Nah, they woulda stopped if they thought we were in trouble or something,” Henry says although he's not too sure.

Walter swallows hard, Henry can hear his nervous panting.

“Calm down, Walter, it’s gonna be fine, I promise.”

“If you say so,” he responds, but the wringing doesn't stop.

Henry adjusts his grip on the wheel, straightening his shoulders as best he can, and purses his lips. He shoots a couple of nervous glances at Walter. This was what Henry has condemned him to, a life with a twist always in his belly, wondering who would see what and when. 

Henry clears his throat, “Look I'm sorry, shouldn't’ve done that.”

Silence.

“It's gonna be okay, no one saw.” He feels guilty though, Walter could've had a good life, but Henry just had to go and screw it up. He could've found a nice girl and invited his folks to the wedding and settled down on the farm. He could've been happy, or happy enough, he wouldn't always be looking over his shoulder at least.

“Stop that, I know what you're thinking,”

Henry smacks the wheel hard, “Dammit!”

“Sorry.”

“Aw, Walter, no, it's not you,” Henry lets out a ragged sigh, “that was just dumb what I did.”

“It wasn't dumb, but, just stop thinking about those things, okay? It makes me sad.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I'm happy with you and you just don't see it.” Henry looks over at him, Walter is slumped down in his seat, his cap in his lap, toying with the insignia on the front of it. “I wish you could read my thoughts, it'd be easier.”

Henry bites his lip. “Does your mother have it?” 

“Have what?”

“Y’know, what you have?”

Walter jumps up, “What do I have? Am I sick?”

“No. No! The ESP or whatever! Christ, Walter, what exactly can you hear? Sometimes I feel like you're five steps ahead of me and then suddenly you're a mile behind!”

“Oh, uh, no I don't think she has it, or at least she hasn't said anything about it.” Walter settles back down, “And I dunno, when you're thinking real hard I can hear it, it's like you're talking real loud, and other times you're just easy to predict.” He giggles.

Henry looks over at him and sets his jaw. “So you're saying I'm slow?” he asks, feigning indignation.

“Well no, you're just real loud and I know you real good.” Henry smiles at this. “But as for stuff I don't know, I dunno, I guess I start listening to my own thoughts and get all foggy.”

Henry reaches over and pats Walter’s thigh. The sun is low now and he's beginning to worry, the airfield is miles behind them and the cornfields show no signs of giving way.

“Hey, Walter, where exactly are we supposed to turn?”

“Oh, it's just over the next hill! You gotta take a left and there's a dirt road, I think.”

“You think?”

“Well, it's been a long time, ya know?”

Henry sighs and settles into his seat, the road looks flat for the next couple miles at least.

“So, all your bags are in the trunk?”

“Uh, yeah, why?”

Walter tugs at his collar nervously, “What about your wife?”

“I mean, unless she's stowed away with my clubs, I left her back in Illinois.” Walter laughs quietly. “I suppose I didn't get the chance to write you about that, huh?” Walter shakes his head and Henry sighs. “She's divorcing me, you know that and I saw it coming, but that orthodontist moved in with her, ya know.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“Why are you sorry, Walter? It's not your fault or anything, these things happen. Besides, she's better off without me, he just bought two new cars, which is why I'm in this old thing.” Henry pats the steering wheel gently, “Not that I could've ever afforded a new car, he reminds me of Frank Burns in a way.”

Walter snickers and Henry glances over at him, smiling at the way he covers his mouth when he laughs.

“Yeah, he’d come into my study with his lips screwed up so tight you’d think I'd screwed his wife, which was true, just not right then.” Walter’s in hysterics now, his face planted on the dashboard, sides heaving. Henry's laughing too, he tries a few times to mimic Frank ’s authoritative falsetto but gives up when all that comes out is an embarrassing shriek. 

“Whoops,” he says and gently corrects the car which has drifted slowly out onto the shoulder amid all the laughter. Henry clears his throat and wipes the tears from his eyes.

“Oh! This is the turn!” Walter leans over Henry to the left and taps the glass frantically.

“I got it, I got it,” chuckles Henry and he pushes Walter back into the passenger’s seat. They turn down a dirt path just wide enough to get a small tractor through, Henry can see the sharp gables of a white farmhouse just over the young green wheat. A soft yellow light glows in a window, the evening light washes the field blue.

“Why did you ask if my mother was like me?” 

“I just wondered if she'd, y’know, figure us out.”

Walter looks thoughtful, “Do you think she'd mind?”

“Walter, I don't know the woman.”

“Oh, right.”

“You did tell her I was coming, right?”

“Well, I…”

“Walter-“

“No, no, I told her, I just-“

“Didn't mention I'd be staying…”

Walter shakes his head, his eyes cast down. 

“Great, so that lamb you sent back got more of a fanfare than me.”

“She won't mind,”

“If you say so,” Henry sighs.

They pull up to the house, the gravel crunches loudly beneath the wheels and Henry cringes, he has a sudden flashback to high school, to dropping off girls at home and the single glowing porch light that served as a warning to beat it. Walter hops out before Henry can even shift gears. He opens the side door and lugs out his suitcase. Henry climbs out after him and reaches over the driver’s seat for his overnight bag before slamming the door. The front door of the house creaks open and a stocky woman with white hair in a wreath of tight curls steps out. Henry breathes a sigh of relief, the woman looks old enough to be his own mother. 

“Ma!” Walter cries and races up the front steps and into her arms. Henry stands behind the car and watches. Mrs. O’Reilly holds her son tight and Henry thinks of all the times he feared he might have had to come here without Walter and hand her what was left of her son. He sees Mrs. O’Reilly whisper something to Walter and she glances at Henry, Walter looks up and replies. Henry realizes he's been hiding behind the car for some time, he lifts his bag and lopes slowly towards the house suddenly self-conscious of his height and the way he stoops in a suit. 

He climbs the stairs and extends his hand, “Mrs. O'Reilly.”

Mrs. O'Reilly clasps his hand in her two, her palms are dry and rough, but her grasp is soft, in an instant his hand is hot. “You must be Dr. Blake.”

“Huh,” Henry laughs nervously, “That’s right, that's me.” Mrs. O'Reilly raises a thin white brow at him and Henry is suddenly aware of the goofy smile he’s got plastered on his face.

She releases his hand and Henry instinctively shoves it into his pocket. “And what is all that?” She asks peering around Henry at the cluttered car behind him.

“Uh, that's, uh,”

“Fishing supplies!” Walter chimes in.

“That's right! Yes, fishing supplies!” Henry catches himself and shoots him a look, “Walter,” he hisses under his breath, “Fishing supplies?”

Mrs. O'Reilly frowns suspiciously, “Well that sure is a lot of stuff.” 

“Well, Ma, he’s gonna be lodging with us for bit.”

“I don't mean to be a bother, really, I can find a motel to stay in if it's trouble.”

She seems to think this over and Walter stares at Henry with his mouth agape, clearly a bit betrayed. “That wouldn't be very kind of me, I don't think,” Mrs. O’Reilly says finally, “Walter mentioned you coming along with him. I just didn't realize you'd be moving in so soon.” She turns and sweeps Walter through the door, “Come in, come in.”

Henry hurries after her and in his rush catches his hip on the doorknob, “Ooh,” he groans, pausing for a moment and rubbing the bone. “Now just wait a minute.” 

Mrs. O’Reilly gestures for her son to sit down at the table in the kitchen. Henry follows quickly, “Just wait a minute, I'm not moving in or anything.” He pauses in the doorway and laughs nervously, “Just staying for a bit.”

She's already busying herself at the kitchen stove, stirring what Henry guesses is a stew from the smell in the room. She stands like that for a bit and Henry stares at Walter who merely shrugs from his seat at the table.

Mrs. O'Reilly turns and wipes her hands on her apron fixing Henry with an impassable gaze, “It’ll take you a while to get through all that bait in the car. Just make sure you pay the rent.”

Henry decides that Mrs. O'Reilly is much smarter than he is. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Would you like some stew, Dr. Blake?”

“Uh, no, no thank you, I got a burger before the airport.”

Walter shoots him a look, if Henry could read minds he's sure that Walter is telling him not to be impolite. But right now he can't tell if he's hungry or he's so nervous he's going to be sick. So he decides what's really good for him is a drink. 

“I'm gonna let you two catch up. Walter, I'll be out at the car getting some of my things, okay?” 

Walter looks as if he’s about to protest but Mrs. O'Reilly plunks a bowl of stew in front of him and all he can do is stare at Henry with a strangled look on his face.

Henry strides out of the room and drops his bag by the front door before heading outside. The evening air is cool but humid and Henry regrets his choice of suit once again, the wool is sticking to him. He unlocks the trunk of the car and then uses a smaller key to unlock the heavy footlocker in the back. Henry selects the bottle of vodka from among various empty and half-full containers. Now’s not the time for manners he decides and takes a few swigs from the bottle. He digs out a pack of cigars next and tucks them into the inner pocket of his jacket. He closes the footlocker and slams the trunk shut.

The suit had been a gift from his wife before he left for Korea, at the time he thought he looked pretty smart in it, it’s a dark gray with soft white pinstripes. But Korea had tanned him, made him ruddy in the face too, and now he felt like a used car salesman, he'd worn it especially to impress Walter. Lotta good that did him, he wishes he'd worn something cream colored, but he hadn't pressed a single shirt since he returned home. He wasn't about to ask Lorraine to do it for him. So here he is in his only pressed suit, a fourth of the way into a bottle of vodka.

His vision swims and he imagines he is underwater as he watches the blue fields roll like waves. Henry takes off his coat and sits on the trunk of the car. He isn't sure what he'd expected, he had all these months to plan out his new life, but somehow, he doesn’t feel changed. He hears gravel shifting next to him, Walter is swaying towards him, or it’s more his vision is swaying, Walter is just walking. He's taken off his Class As and now is wearing his worn fatigue trousers and a flannel shirt.  
“How long’ve you been gone, Walter?” Henry whispers, he feels unbalanced.

“Too long I guess,” Walter replies and tugs the bottle out of his hand, it's nearing half empty. “Y’know, that was rude to my Ma, she made that stew for us.”

“Sorry, Walter.”

Walter sighs and Henry can see tears catching on the bottom of his lenses, “I missed you a whole lot, Henry.”

Henry stares at him, he slides over on the trunk of the car and pats the space next to him. Walter puts the bottle on the ground and sits down. Henry wraps an arm around his shoulders and rests his head on Walter. Walter strains his neck to place his chin on top of Henry's head. Henry can feel Walter blowing the fine sandy blonde strands out of his face.

“Careful up there, I've only got so much of that left, y’know.”

Walter giggles, “You've got plenty, it's just soft.”

“I was dreaming I was underwater.”

Walter tenses, “Like in the plane?”

“I dunno, gee, I haven't thought of that in a while. This all feels strange. I should be in Illinois with my wife and kids.”

“You should?”

“Yeah, I suppose I should, but that's not where I wanna be.”

“Oh,” Walter lets out a little gasp as Henry holds him tighter. 

“I'm starting all the way over,”

“Not all the way.”

“How do you suppose?”

“Well, ya know me for one, and you're still a doctor and you've got that Army pension to look forward to every month.” 

Henry chuckles, “I gotta change my address though, and if Lorraine finds out what it is, she's gonna send all the check stubs to me. You know I was still balancing her books even when that orthodontist moved in, do you think you need to know math to become an orthodontist, Walter?”

“Well, I suppose you gotta be able to count the teeth.”

Henry laughs, “You were always a funny one, Walter.”

“I know, let’s go inside, Ma said you can have Uncle Ed’s old room.”

Henry staggers to his feet and they make their way back into the house. Henry is painfully aware of every creaking board in the house as he and Walter creep past the stairs. 

“Your mother is gonna hate me,” Henry mutters.

“No she won't,” Walter hisses as they finally make their way into the downstairs room. Henry notes that someone brought his overnight bag in there. The bed is about as big as the one he had back in Korea and is the only furniture in the room save for a leaning closet. Henry lands heavily on top of the bed and the frame creaks loudly. He's aware that somewhere to the side of him Walter is pulling off his flannel shirt and fatigues. 

“Don't do that,” he whispers.

“Why not?”

“Your mother.”

Walter scowls at him and flicks his wrist angrily before stepping out of his pants and pulling off his boots. He leans over and sits on the mattress next to Henry, “C’mon,” he whines, “get undressed, I'm tired.” Henry attempts to sit up but the room spins and he flops onto his back again. Walter sighs and the last thing Henry remembers is his stupid wing tipped shoes being yanked off his feet.

Henry wakes up to a pounding headache and the unmistakable sound of clucking chickens. He groans and peers up at the water damaged ceiling above him and he realizes that his legs aren't even on top of the mattress, in fact, he's diagonal across the bed. Henry pushes himself up and bumps his head against something solid. 

“Walter?” 

The bump moves and groans, “Quit it.”

“Walter, why am I half off the bed?”

“I got tired after I had to drag all your clothes off.”

“Oh.” Henry sits up, sure enough he’s lying on top of his shirt and his suit pants and socks are bunched up on the floor. He turns to face Walter who is curled up in the corner of the bed with the covers pulled up tightly around him. So it wasn't a dream. 

Henry crawls over to Walter and wraps himself around him as best he can.

“Cut it out, will ya? I'm still on Korea time.”

“Sorry, sorry, I just, this is all real…”

“Uh-huh.”

“Walter.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I'm in love.”

Walter turns over, “I think I'm in love too.” He pecks Henry on the cheek before once again covering his face with the blanket. 

Henry glances around, “Walter, hey, Walter.”

“What?” 

“Don't you need to go?”

“Where to?” Walter grumbles.

“To another room! Won't your mother think that this is odd?” Henry is getting nervous, he doesn't know a whole lot about farms but he does know that the work starts early and so Mrs. O'Reilly is probably already up and about.

“I talked to her last night about it.”

“About us?”

Walter nods, “Yeah, we had a long conversation, man to man, I suppose.”

“And?”

“I dunno, she didn't say anything. Nothing bad, nothing good, y’know?”

Henry most certainly doesn't know, “Did you even say what exactly we are?”

Walter’s face becomes bright red, “I mean, I guess I sorta said it, in a roundabout way, but she's smart! She gets it, I think…”

Henry decides to drop the subject, at least he hadn't been thrown out yet. “I don't think your mother likes me very much.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

“Because I think you are the only soldier to come back from Korea with someone like me.”

Walter sits up and blinks at him, “A man you mean?”

Henry shakes his head, “A drunk.”

“Well that's just not true.”

“How do you suppose?”

“Someone’s going home with Cap’n Pierce.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whew, it's been a while but I've done it! And I'm pretty proud of it too, thanks everyone who's sticking with it!

The following day is marked mostly by how much clutter Henry and Walter are able to move out of the sedan and sort into Walter’s bedroom upstairs, the downstairs room, and the attic where the cousins used to live. Henry feels very much the country doctor when they finally organize the various instruments he brought along into a chest of drawers Walter and he haul down from upstairs. 

Walter has the misfortune of opening Henry's footlocker in the middle of the parlor only to discover the graveyard of empty bottles. If Mrs. O’Reilly notices from the floral sofa she’s perched on, waiting for the timer in the kitchen to sound, she doesn't say a word but Walter slams the trunk closed with a loud clatter and stares at Henry wide eyed. Henry tries to disappear into the wallpaper. 

Their second night in Iowa they sleep upstairs, the air is hot and humid and warns of a cruel summer. The twin bed is spacious compared to the one man Army cot they'd managed to squeeze themselves onto a few times in Walter's office, but Henry is restless. He drifts off for a few hours, but jolts awake sweating and distraught by his pinned limbs before he remembers who is beside him. 

Despite having his back pressed against the wall, leaving Henry taking up most of the mattress, Walter seems to have made the most of his position, he has both his legs wrapped around one of Henry's and an arm thrown over his chest. His head is tucked between Henry's cheek and shoulder, his breath is soft and warm on Henry's Adam's apple. If it were just ten degrees cooler he thinks he could fully enjoy the warm air and soft mouth pressed against the skin of his throat.

He presses his face into Walter's hair for just a moment before carefully extracting his left arm out from under him. Walter mumbles when Henry sits up and untangles their legs before standing up from the bed. He makes his way over to the closet and takes his threadbare bathrobe from where it's hanging on the door. He puts it on and pats the pockets feeling for his cigars and matches. Once he's taken inventory he slides on his slippers and peers out of the room. Mrs. O’Reilly’s door is closed at the end of the hallway but Henry still takes care not to step too heavily on the loose steps on his way downstairs. When he reaches the door he fumbles with the knob, he can't ever remember which way to twist it, but he manages to get it open and step out onto the porch.

The sky is pitch black but the air is just beginning to smell like early morning. Henry leans against the porch rail and stares out across the field. The soft gray shadows are broken momentarily when he strikes a match and holds it carefully to his cigar. The humidity makes it hard to stoke an ember but he manages to do it before the match burns down to his fingertips, he's had enough practice in the sweltering Korean summers. He waves the flame out frantically and drops the blackened match into the ashtray balanced on the rail beside him. 

The smoke he breathes out hangs heavy in the air like his breath in winter. The wet air seems to hold the cloud in place before it dissipates slowly, spreading out over the yard. A car streaks past the farm, Henry can't make out the road in the shadows, but for some reason it seems further away than before. He takes another drag on his cigar and wonders where someone is going so early in the morning on what seems to him is the emptiest road in the whole country. Seeing a car go past in daylight is rare, it seems more likely he'd see a shooting star than a car at this hour. He wonders if one can wish on a car and laughs at himself.

He hadn't noticed it growing lighter but the sky is slowly turning a slate gray and the shadows begin to turn blue. Henry blinks, he can't quite remember smoking the cigar either but it is rapidly diminishing between his fingers. A cool breeze rolls over the wheat like the world is starting to breathe again. 

The door behind him creaks open and Henry looks over his shoulder to see Walter shuffle out slowly, he still seems to be living out of his duffel bag, wearing his Army reg t-shirt and boxers. His robe is open and looking worse for the wear. Henry thinks the dingy threadbare robe was his at some point, but he vaguely remembers Walter throwing it over his shoulders after that near miss with the jeep and the chopper pilot. 

Walter had sat him down on the edge of his cot in the outer office and placed his warm hands on Henry’s cheeks, holding his face still while he tried to blink the dust of his eyes. He remembers watching Walter’s lips move, dizzy from the beam that had caught him across the temple, and thinking that if Walter leaned down just a little more he might be able to kiss them. And for just a moment Walter’s lips stopped moving, mid sentence, barely parted, Henry looked up just in time to catch some sort of realization pass through Walter’s eyes before his hands fell away from Henry’s face and he hurried off to get him water from post-op.

He just might have kissed Walter that night and offered him a few inches of that cot in the office if the next explosion in the latrine hadn’t knocked some sense into him. Dishonorable discharge might have been a decent stand in for death if that pilot had really wanted to punish him. Henry isn't sure if Walter got any sleep in the spare cot in post-op but he sure hadn't in the outer office. He'd spent the night staring at the corrugated metal wall, less worried about the possibility of another near death experience and more about the way he wanted to bury his face into Walter's pillow and breathe in his scent. And what exactly that all meant.

“What’re you doing, Henry? It's early.” Walter rubs his eyes under his glasses. He crosses the porch to stand beside Henry. 

“Not much earlier than usual.”

Walter lets out a tired laugh, “An hour kinda counts when you have to wake up at five, ya know?”

Henry can tell Walter is trying not to smile at him by the way his lips are drawn thin over his teeth, but the corners keep edging upwards. He steps quickly behind Walter and wraps himself around him, settling his head on Walter’s shoulder. Walter’s cheek brushes against his when he finally does smile and he rolls his hips up into the curve of Henry's body. He lets out a contented hum and Henry grins triumphantly. He takes his cigar in his mouth and holds it firmly between his teeth, freeing up his hands so he can wrap his arms around Walter’s waist. 

“What're you doing out here?”

Henry sighs and takes the cigar from his mouth, resting his wrist on the splintering rail, “It’s hot upstairs, got spoiled by air conditioning already.”

“Oh.”

“What's up, Walter?”

“Do you wanna be here?”

“Well, yeah, there's a breeze, maybe we should open a window upstairs.”

Walter shifts beneath the weight of Henry's chest. “I mean _here_ here.”

“In Iowa? How many times do I have to tell ya? I wanna be wherever you are, you know that.” Henry brings the cigar to his mouth again and takes a drag, he makes sure to blow the smoke away from Walter’s face. “I know you know that because you can hear it, I don't even have to say it.”

Walter mumbles something Henry doesn't quite understand.

“I'll say it if you want me to though.” Walter glances at him out of the corner of his eye and Henry smiles gently. He goes to take another drag from the cigar but Walter twists around. Henry backs away so as not to drop ashes down his nose. Walter slides his hands beneath Henry's robe and encircles his waist with his arms. Henry leans over and crushes the remains of his cigar into the ashtray. He puts his hands in the small of Walter’s back, just barely touching him. 

Henry tries to recall again if the dark circles under Walter’s eyes were always there, but he can't, it may just be his unshaven cheeks that make Henry feel as though he has misremembered Walter's face the years they were apart. Walter holds him a bit tighter and Henry feels as though the air is being pushed out of his lungs.

“Sorry,” Henry mumbles.

“For what?”

“You had to spend your first night home playing nurse, that's not- I'm sure that's not how you imagined coming home.”

Walter shrugs, “Done it plenty before,” he laughs, “it's kinda like a routine now.” 

Somehow this makes Henry feel worse, he frowns and Walter's eyes go wide.

“Oh!” he gasps, “Oh, I didn't mean it like that, I just, I just mean that's how you were in Korea and I don't mind, you know? It's like- it's normal!”

Henry sighs and puts his hands limply on Walter's shoulders, “Walter, I-”

“Really, I don't mind!” he interrupts.

“Well, I do, look, you deserve better-”

“Stop saying that!” Walter glares at him.

Henry is quiet for a moment, “Let me do it over?”

“What?”

“Can we go back inside and sleep? And tomorrow I’ll get up without a hangover. I've asked you for one too many seltzer tablets.” 

Walter stares at him, stunned, he pulls an arm from Henry's robe suddenly and pushes past his left arm. Walter throws it over his neck and dips Henry's head down towards him. Their lips meet and Henry can feel Walter rise up into the kiss. He drops his hand from Walter's shoulder to his waist, pulling him closer. He inhales sharply when Walter’s soft warm hand slides beneath his shirt and across his chest. He hadn't realized how cold his skin had become until Walter's palm was searing against it. 

Instantly he’s breathless and curses the cigars for the burning in his lungs. Walter mutters something into his lips and Henry gives him just enough space to speak. Walter's face is flushed, Henry feels dizzy and cross eyed from the kiss. He exhales, the ache is worse now, he feels like he's run a mile but he'd never stop running if Walter asked him to. 

“The rail,” Walter whispers softly.

“The what?” 

“The rail, can you back up? You're crushing me against the rail.”

“Oh!” Henry shuffles backwards a bit and sure enough the wood boards creak with relief, their burden lifted.

Walter sighs too, relaxing in Henry's arms, “Can we go in? We still have a half hour to sleep.”

Henry wonders if his heart will slow down enough in time for him to even get rest. He can feel it pounding against the pressure of Walter's hand. “Yeah,” he says breathlessly, but doesn't move. He stares at Walter's face and wonders what he couldn't recognize before. Henry cups Walter’s face in his hand and kisses his soft parted lips again.

He pulls away slowly, and Walter lets Henry lean on his shoulder for a moment when they move to go inside. Henry follows him through the door and back up the stairs. The house is washed in blues and grays, he won't ever miss the brown shadows that the sun cast in Korea when it glared so fiercely through the plastic windows Henry thought they might just melt. The upstairs room is still hot but the smell of wood and soft blankets compels Henry to shut the door behind them if only so he doesn't have to share the air with anyone but Walter. 

He watches as Walter unlatches the window above the night table and shoves it open. The window resists a few times, the wood squeaks loudly against the frame. Walter dusts his hands while cooler air leaks into the room. It's a little too late though, it'll take hours for the room to cool like this. Henry moves to the bed and takes off his robe, hanging it on the low bedpost, he can feel Walter's eyes on him as he takes of his shirt as well, he looks up.

“It's too hot for this,” he says quietly and climbs into bed, sliding between the almost cool sheets. He presses his left side to the wall this time and watches Walter from the bed. 

Walter hesitates for a moment, staring at Henry with an unreadable expression. For a moment Henry thinks that Walter will leave the room and he isn't sure he'll be able to follow him if he does. But then Walter steps towards the bed and lifts the sheet, settling himself down beside Henry. He takes off his glasses and sets them on the table. Then in one quick movement, as if he doesn't want to give himself time to think, he pulls off his t-shirt and drops it on the floor beside the bed. He nearly ducks down entirely beneath the sheets. 

“You're right, it’s too hot,” Walter says quietly from the pillow, his breath is faint on Henry's bare skin. 

Henry sinks down beside him, they stare at each other from across the pillow. Walter moves first, pressing his hips against Henry's. The skin of his thigh rasps against Walter's when Henry shifts closer, he runs his hand over Walter's chest, listening to the soft sound of skin passing over skin. 

Henry pauses over his left side, he can feel the faint pulse of Walter’s heart in his rib cage, but there, on the skin just above it, there are dips in the flesh he's never felt before. Walter murmurs something, Henry can't hear it but he feels the rumble of Walter’s voice beneath his palm. He sits up slowly, resting on his elbow and runs his thumb over the divots again. 

Walter's eyes are wide and round when he touches Henry's arm. Henry knows what's there, beneath his hand, he's felt it before when he’d run his surgical gloves over healing wounds looking for signs of infection and reassuring a kid about to write his girl back home that it wouldn't scar too bad.

But this isn't Korea and there is no white sterile barrier between his palm and the warm skin and racing pulse. He's in Iowa, in bed, with Walter beside him, his hand pressed against something that's followed them home.

Henry swallows and looks down, he moves his hand away, resting it on Walter's side. The scars are small and neat and bear all the hallmarks of Pierce’s work. His best work, in fact, better than anything that usually rolled out of that place, cosmetics really had been the least of their concerns. The raised skin is still obvious though, a dark shade of pink, still not old enough to fade into tight white lines. 

Henry drags his eyes away from the scars, pausing only to notice one stray mark just beneath Walter's collarbone. Walter is staring at him, his face is pale and he tightens his grip on Henry's arm when Henry opens his mouth to speak.  
“I'm sorry,” Walter blurts out.

They stare at each other for a few moments, Henry stumbles for words. “You got hurt.”

“Yeah.” Walter's voice is barely a whisper.

Henry looks back down at the scars, the largest one must be four inches long, the others are small oblong flecks, marking where metal embedded itself just below the skin. He glances up, Walter's Class A jacket hangs haphazardly on the corner of the closet door, covered by a bathrobe. His uniform pants are already stuffed into the back of the closet, without regard to their delicate creases. Henry can't see it from here, but he knows that there must be a purple ribbon above the left breast pocket of the jacket. 

“I didn't see it.” He looks back at Walter, “I didn't even notice-“

“I'm sorry.”

Henry runs his fingertips up Walter's side and back down to his hip again. “Why are you sorry?”

“I’m always going to remind you of there now.”

“Korea?”

“Yeah.” Walter looks away nervously.

“I think about it anyway,” says Henry. Walter's eyes dart back up to meet his. “But you- you mean more to me than that war, those memories,” Henry swallows, he feels a bit sick, “those memories are nothing compared to now, I've got you and we’re here.” He flattens his hand on the small of Walter's back, pulling him closer. “We’re in Iowa.”

Walter lurches forward and kisses him hard, they cling to each other and sink back down onto the pillow. Henry's eyelids feel heavy, he traces patterns absently in the curve of Walter's back while their kisses soften. 

Henry opens his eyes when Walter’s lips leave his. He doesn't want to have to ask the question out loud, but he has to know.

“A mortar hit my jeep, or just in front of it, I dunno, I don't remember any of it.” Walter spares him the indecision. “Hawkeye, he, y’know, fixed me up, but- he got drunk and he couldn't operate on someone else. I always thought he was better than that, I thought if anybody was gonna make it out it was gonna be Hawk.”

“Can't say I would've done much better, probably better I wasn't there, I would've just crawled under the desk with a bottle and never come out.” Henry tries to break the tension with an awkward breathy laugh, Walter smiles even if just a little sadly. Henry knows he's said something wrong and tightens his grip on Walter. “I'm lucky Pierce was there, I’m lucky you're alright, I couldn't make it without you, y’know?” 

He nods slightly and Henry reaches up to cradle the back of Walter's head in his hand. “Look,” Henry whispers, “I can't read your thoughts, but I wanna understand, so no secrets? Promise?”

Walter presses his temple against Henry's. “Promise.”

Henry closes his eyes, settling in for sleep.

“Hey, Henry?”

“Yes, Walter?”

“Got something to tell you.”

Henry opens one eye and peers at him, “What is it?”

“Uh, well, I dunno exactly how to tell you this, but-” Walter pauses and Henry opens his other eye, “remember Captain Tuttle?”

“Sure, you know people like that really make an impression on you, it really is too bad about that whole parachute thing.”

“Uh, well, you see, he wasn't real, Hawkeye made him up, I forged his file and everything.”

Henry stares at him, Walter avoids his eyes but there's something mischievous about the way his mouth turns up at the corners. 

“Then just who in the hell did I give that medal to?”

Walter can bury his face in the pillow all he likes but there is no hiding the way his shoulders shake with laughter from Henry. He runs his hand through Walter's hair, too tired to even begin to understand the story behind that scheme.

“How much time do we have left to sleep?” he whispers.

Walter finally calms himself and sighs. “We can sleep in for an hour.”

Henry yawns and turns his face towards the ceiling, “Wake me up with you, okay? I can't lay around forever.”

There's no response but Walter's mouth is beside his neck again and his soft breaths and occasional gentle kisses lull Henry to sleep.

When he wakes the space beside him is empty and bright noonday sunlight is streaming through the white curtains. Henry stares at the ceiling in silence, he stretches his limbs across the mattress, feeling the cool sheets where a warm body should've been. He wonders if he'll ever be able to take care of Walter. 

***

Sunday morning Henry follows Walter around the farm well before sun up feeling very much out of his depth and a bit nervous around Bessie. Walter sits on a low stool milking the big brown cow while Henry tries to find a way to make himself look useful at the very least. 

He jumps when he taps a bale of hay with the toe of his boot, he never thought he'd have use for Army boots again, and a shadow shoots out from behind it. It dashes across the barn floor before stopping in the middle and staring straight at Henry. It takes him a moment to recognize the creature as a cat. 

Walter looks up at him, clearly amused by the hand Henry has thrown over his heart, “Wouldya feed the cats, please?”

Henry looks at him and clears his throat, stuffing his hand back into his pocket, “Yeah, sure.”

Walter pushes a bundle of newspaper towards Henry with his foot, Henry had seen him take it out of the refrigerator earlier. He’d hoped it was their breakfast. 

“Not sure you'd wanna eat this,” says Walter when Henry picks up the package. He turns on his stool and peers around the stable wall. Walter clicks his tongue loudly. “Kitty, kitty, kitty!”

Every corner of the gloomy barn seems to come alive and suddenly there’s a knot of cats at Henry’s feet, all of them opening their jaws wide and wailing. 

“Jesus, Walter, how many cats are there here?” 

“Uh, about sixteen, right now, Ma said Teddie is pregnant though, make sure she gets some extra if you can, she's the big fluffy gray one.”

In the dim light of the lantern all the cats kind of look gray to Henry, he fumbles with the newspaper and the crunching only seems to make the cats more frantic. Something about their screaming makes Henry feel as though he has a time limit before they tire and decide to snatch the package from his hands. 

He finally pulls it open and time seems to stand still as his brain attempts to process what exactly he's looking at. When it does Henry instinctively throws the package up into the air in a blind panic. 

Half frozen chicken feet rain down on Walter, Henry, and the cats. One of the feet bounces off Walter's head and he spins around to face Henry.

“Hey! What's that all about?” He cries and kicks the foot away before a cat gets too close to the nearly full bucket beneath Bessie. 

“There were feet in there!”

“Well, yeah! It's cat food!”

Henry watches the cats scramble frantically for their breakfast, each greedily snatching up a foot and making off with it to a dark and quiet corner of the barn. “Don't they- don't they get enough mice to eat in here?”

Walter shrugs, his back to Henry again, he swaps the milk laden bucket for an empty one and carries on milking. “We give them a little extra, just in case, did you see Teddie?”

“Uh, no, or I don't think so, it's kinda hard to tell when they're all screaming like that.”

“Oh! Well, I guess we gotta catch her later, I wanna make sure she's okay.”

Henry collects the scraps of newspaper he'd dropped and crushes them into a ball. There’s a scuffling in the stable beside them and he peers over the side expecting to see one of the cats emerging from its hiding place. A huge mass of wool is scuffing its ridged horns in the dirt, it stares up at Henry with dark glassy eyes. 

“Uh, there's a sheep in here.” 

“That's Charlie, Henry.” 

“You mean Charles Lamb?” Henry scratches the back of his neck, “Wasn't he a lot, you know, smaller?”

Walter stands and moves the bucket away from Bessie, he wipes his hands on the front of his pants and steps to Henry's side. “They get pretty big after a while. We gotta shear him soon though and I haven't done that in a long time, not since Uncle Ed was here.” 

Henry looks down at him, Walter’s shoulders are slumped and he's frowning. Henry wraps an arm around his shoulders, “He'd be pretty proud of you.” 

Walter sniffs loudly, “Yeah, well, they said that about Pa too.” 

Henry isn't sure what to say and holds him a bit tighter, “Can I help shear it or something?”

“You'll need to hold him for me I think.”

Henry looks at the sharp hooves and gulps, “Sure, Walter.” He's not so sure he's cut out for this sort of job, he's been avoiding the chickens in the yard, it just seems like at any moment they might fly at his head, and he can't imagine he'll be on good terms with them now, somehow they'll know about the feet.

Walter rests his head on Henry's chest, “You'll do fine, promise.” They stand quietly for a moment, Henry thinks he could almost fall asleep like this, Walter's weight is comforting pressed against him. 

Walter pulls out of Henry's arms and picks up the buckets, “C’mon, Ma’s probably made breakfast by now.”

Henry follows him across the yard, it's cool and misty, the sun is finally beginning to rise but the sky is still gray and heavy with clouds. He looks out over the field as Walter pours the milk carefully into large glass bottles on the porch. The wheat is high and greener than anything Henry has ever seen before. He thinks about the hours he spent in Bloomington pushing the mower across his lawn and the way his neighbor said, “ _Bermuda_ grass,” like the thing had a pedigree. Henry's itching for a cigar, but he'll have to wait, Walter won't let him smoke around the animals. Walter is tightening the caps on the bottles and Henry climbs the creaking porch steps to pick them up for him. 

Walter opens the door to the house and they move quietly into the kitchen. Mrs. O’Reilly is at the kitchen table with her oatmeal and Walter crosses the room to kiss her cheek while Henry puts the milk in the refrigerator. 

“Good morning, Walter,” she says, tugging on the collar of his shirt to straighten it out. 

“Good morning, Ma.”

“Henry,” Mrs. O’Reilly prompts.

Henry closes the fridge door and turns, “Good morning, Mrs. O’Reilly.” Funny how she could make him feel like he’d been struck with a wooden spoon with just a look. 

He joins Walter at the stove and takes the bowl of oatmeal from him when Walter passes it to him. Walter smiles at him when their eyes meet and Henry thinks about how good it would feel to kiss him again, but he doesn't, instead they move over to the table and sit down across from each other. Henry’s head is fuzzy when he cuts through the soft brick of butter on a white ceramic dish and deposits it onto his oatmeal. 

He never thought he'd be able to eat oatmeal again after Korea but whatever was coming out of the mess tent must not have been oatmeal because he could eat this every morning. Iowa felt as if it had some sort of magical property, like it was the polar opposite of Korea. The air felt clean in his lungs and the food tasted better and even though he could see the stars at night better in Korea than he ever could in Bloomington, here in Ottumwa he could swear they were closer. 

He can feel Walter staring at him and he looks up. Walter is biting his lower lip, forcing down a smile, the corners of his mouth twitch with the strain. Henry grins back at him, comforted to know Walter’s still listening to him, he just wishes he could tell him that now. 

“Walter?” Mrs. O'Reilly says.

Walter turns toward her, “Yes, Ma?”

“Why don't you two come to town with me for church? ‘Bout time you get some patients.” She points her spoon at Henry when she says this and he shrinks away just a bit. 

“Ma, he doesn't have his license here yet.”

“When's your examination at the hospital, Henry?” 

“Not for another six months.” Henry smiles just a bit to try to ease the tension. 

Mrs. O'Reilly nods, “Never too early to start talkin’ to people, gotta get the telephone number in the book too, I'll see my sister at worship today and talk to her boy, he works for the phone company, y’know.” She drops her spoon into her bowl and gathers it up with the newspaper. “Now I’m going to get ready for church.” She sets her bowl in the sink beside the fridge. “Be sure to dress nice.” 

Walter watches her leave the kitchen before he stands and takes his dish to the cracked ceramic sink, the bowls clatter against each other. Henry holds out an arm to Walter and wraps it neatly around his waist when he stands beside Henry. He leans against Walter's chest and breathes in his scent, wondering just how he got here. Walter's hand is light on his shoulder and Henry thinks of the nights when Walter would let him cling to his arms, his knuckles white and joints aching from two days of nonstop surgery. 

Walter is running a hand through Henry's hair and he thinks he should try to think of Korea less but he’s never been one to leave everything in the past. Somewhere in his files is a high school diploma and a battered doll is tucked into an unopened box of clothes. Shoot, he'd even dragged a set of golf clubs to Korea and back and then all the way to Ottumwa. It'd probably be harder to find a course here than in Korea where the brass needed something to do when they weren't in peace talks. Of course the way things were going it sure seemed as if they were taking breaks from golfing to talk.

A gentle hand on his shoulder gives him a little shake and he reaches up to hold it. “You can't go falling asleep, Henry,” Walter says quietly.

“Mm,” Henry hums and holds him a little tighter before letting go and standing. The sun has made it to the window and the strained yellow light is hot on his cheek. 

“You think about Korea a lot, huh?” Walter sounds faraway when they climb the stairs. Henry doesn't respond until they are in the stuffy bedroom with the door closed.

“I suppose so,” he says and sits down on the edge of the bed to unlace his boots, Walter is shuffling around the clothes hung neatly up in the closet. 

Mrs. O'Reilly had been kind enough to press the crumpled shirts and pants Henry had brought along. He'd attempted to press his clothes himself the day before but as it turned out he was no good at it. Henry hadn't pressed his uniform in his entire stay in Korea but he did prove his skill when handling the fine lace tablecloth and handkerchiefs that Mrs. O'Reilly had asked her son to hang up to dry. Mrs. O'Reilly was too polite to directly ask just where Henry had acquired this skill, but Walter was too embarrassed to tell her when she questioned him instead.

Walter brings him a crisp white shirt and dark blue trousers and Henry takes them gratefully, setting the clothes down neatly on the bed before pulling off his flannel shirt. It's one of Walter's, the sleeves don't cover his wrists. He undoes his belt and kicks off the battered fatigue pants he'd brought along. 

“Does it bother you?” Henry turns toward Walter who's halfway out of his gray sweatshirt. He pulls it off over his head and looks at Henry, his glasses askew on his nose. 

Henry blinks at him, “I never thought too hard about it.” He stands and takes the trousers from the hanger, he steps into them and fastens the button. He moves past Walter and opens the drawer in the bedside table, taking his keys, and the silver keychain they hang from, out of it. He pockets them and turns back to Walter, “I mean, I think about it, but I don't really think about it.”

Walter has fixed his glasses. “You still have that?”

Henry reaches back into his pocket and runs his thumb over the inscription on the bullet like he has a million times before, so many times the silver varnish wore off and the dingy brass bled through, but the inscription is still there, carved deep into the soft metal. 

“Course I do, Walter, don't go anywhere without it.” Henry swallows, Walter is staring up at him, soft gray eyes pleading for him to say it out loud. “Don't want to go anywhere without you either.”

Walter is up in a flash, Henry barely has time to register the soft lips on his and the arms around his neck, but he sinks so easily into it. His hands on Walter's sides, both of them half dressed and just so close, he can feel Walter's racing pulse against his chest. Walter kisses him deeply and Henry can barely help himself because if daydreaming about holding Walter like this can make him weak in the knees then actually doing it just about knocks him to the floor.

They part and Henry runs a hand through Walter's hair while he catches his breath. His glasses are crooked again. Henry wishes this moment was endless. 

“We’ll never get dressed like this,” Walter says, he's smiling brightly and Henry takes him by the shoulders, shaking him playfully.

“Better get to it then,” he says. He lets go and watches Walter sit on the bed to pull on his blue checked shirt. He turns and takes a carton of cigarettes and lighter from the night table. Henry leans out the open window, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. The clouds are beginning to clear and soon the blue sky will be as unbroken as the miles and miles of farmland. 

“Suppose your mother will want us to join her?” Henry asks, breathing the smoke out with his question. 

“Nah, we’ll just make ourselves scarce for a bit, maybe go down to the river? You'll like it there.” Henry hears Walter stepping into his dress shoes and flicks his cigarette butt down into the yard.

He turns and watches Walter tuck his shirt into dove gray trousers, he's not sure if it matches much but doesn't say anything. Walter shoots him a look anyways.

Henry pockets the cigarettes and lighter and picks up his white dress shirt from the bed, he pulls it on while Walter rubs at his lenses with the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Think I could pass for a Methodist?” Henry asks when he slips on his shoes.

Walter's brow creases, “Are those the only shoes you brought?”

“I like them,”

Walter just stares.

“You sold them to me!”

The smile on his face tells Henry that Walter’s just giving him trouble but Henry chases him down the stairs anyway. 

Mrs. O'Reilly is waiting by the front door and turns quickly to stare at them when they both nearly tumble down the last few steps. Henry clears his throat and straightens his collar awkwardly but Walter ignores his mother’s stern gaze and heads straight out the front door.

“All ready, Mrs. O'Reilly,” Henry smiles at her and she looks him up and down, managing to raise her eyebrow even higher when she sees the wingtip shoes.

She doesn't say a word and briskly follows Walter out of the house. Henry supposes she's following the golden rule. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. He follows her outside.

Walter is waiting on the porch and catches his elbow as he passes by. “I’ll drive, Henry,” he says and holds out his hand for the keys as they walk to the car. 

“Sure, Walter.” Henry digs the keys out and puts them firmly in his hand. Mrs. O'Reilly is already waiting by the car in her Sunday best. She stands straighter than he ever did in the Army, he thinks. Henry feels underdressed compared to her, in her perfectly matching blue cardigan and dress, and wonders if he has a sports coat shoved beneath the backseat somewhere. In the moment he takes to ponder this Walter has helped Mrs. O'Reilly into the passenger seat and rushed back around to the driver's side.

“C’mon, Henry!” he shouts. 

Henry lopes over to the car and opens the door before ducking into the back. He has to tuck his knees up almost to his chest to fit into the cramped backseat and he winces when his shoes leave dusty streaks on the seat in front of him. 

Walter wastes no time throwing the clutch into drive when he sees that Henry is settled, or close enough, and stomping on the gas. Henry’s own knees just about knock the wind out of him when the car jerks forward. 

They tear out of the dusty drive and lurch over the hill, Henry feels the seat drop out from below him for just a moment before he slams back down onto it. 

“Walter, this isn't exactly a jeep!” he shouts over the engine when he catches his breath.

“I know! It goes a lot faster!” Walter shouts back over his shoulder.

“No, I mean-” Henry nearly tumbles sideways when Walter turns suddenly onto the main road, his hand shooting out to grab Walter's shoulder, catching himself before he ends up sprawled across the back seats. “I mean it's not that sturdy!”

“Got outta that ditch just fine.” Walter laughs.

Henry's mouth twitches and he pats Walter’s shoulder before sitting back. He stares at Mrs. O'Reilly for a moment, her gloved hands are fashion from another era and they rest lightly on her handbag. He looks up into the rearview mirror only to catch a glimmer of laughter in her eyes behind the flash of her own lenses. 

He tilts his head back to look up at the roof of the car and wonders just how long it would take him to walk back to the O’Reilly farm from town. 

The car trip is over not a moment too soon and Henry has to take a moment to stretch his legs and subtly steady his stomach. Mrs. O'Reilly exchanges a few quiet words with Walter while he does before she leaves them there outside the church. 

The parishioners are a steady stream of farm folk and Henry does his best impression of an upstanding citizen. Of course if there was one thing that he had learned from his time in Korea it was how to shake hands. Walter even produces an impressive looking photograph of Henry shaking hands with Douglas MacArthur. He attempts to snatch it from Walter's grasp, his face red with embarrassment, but Walter is much quicker than he his. Henry is reminded of the slight of hand that had taken place nearly every day on his desk. It's all endearing if anything and he has to resist the urge to throw an arm around Walter's shoulder. Upstanding citizen, right.

Most of the townsfolk agree that the general looks rather small but luckily Henry manages not to stoop and most are pleased with the explanation that the surgeon is simply very tall. Not that any one of them could testify to exactly how tall Doug is, Henry thinks.

One of the ushers gives them an odd look when they don't follow the last of the worshippers in. He closes the door loudly and they take a seat on the walls of the flowerbeds along the church wall. 

Henry smokes a few cigarettes and offers one to Walter in the hour they spend in the sun. Walter doesn't take it and seems distracted. Henry watches him clean and readjust his glasses at least five times and wonders if that's somehow a substitute for biting his nails. There's nothing left to chew, Walter’s fingers are nearly bitten to the quick and Henry wishes he had just accepted the cigarette for his nerves. 

Walter leaps up when the church door bangs open and the usher kicks a doorstop beneath it. Henry stands and rolls his shoulders before dropping the last of his cigarette to the pavement and crushing it beneath his shoe. Mrs. O'Reilly isn't long and he and Walter meet her by the door. 

She puts her hand gently on Walter's arm, “Missed a good sermon,” she says, with a sweetness in her voice. “Now you two go on ahead, I'm going to my sister’s for tea, she’ll drive me back.”

Walter smiles when she pats his arm. “Okay, Ma, sure you don't want us to come get ya? You can just phone the house.” 

Mrs. O'Reilly laughs, “Don't you worry, Walter, I’m sure Henry won't mind a break from the car.” 

Walter glances over his shoulder at him and Henry bites the inside of his cheek for a moment.

“Be careful,” she says and strolls off around the corner.

Henry watches Walter's shoulders heave with a sigh and takes a step to his side. It's clear that Walter isn’t ready to go by the way he stares past the last parishioners chatting by the door and into the dimly lit church.

“Walter, are you-” he starts.

“Just a second, Henry,” Walter says without looking at him. He hesitates for a second more before stepping past the people at the door with a few polite words. Henry follows, ducking his head when they stare at him with confused frowns on their faces. 

Walter is gazing straight ahead, his head tilted slightly up, he walks purposefully down the aisle and Henry trails just behind, his hands in his pockets. A few older women are moving through the pews, gathering scraps of paper and hymn books but they don't seem to take notice. Walter stops suddenly and Henry, startled, nearly trips on his own feet. Walter steps into the pew and takes a few short paces before sitting down. 

Henry stands beside it for just a moment wondering if he's supposed to do something this close to the altar, he has some vague recollection of a ritual when he was a boy but the last time he'd even been near a pew was at his wedding. Sure he'd driven Lorraine and the girls to the Lutheran church for Christmas and maybe a few Easters but he'd either stood in the back with the young mothers or sat in the car with the heat blasting in the winter and the races on the radio in the spring. 

He finally gathers himself and makes his way clumsily over to Walter. He sits down and puts his feet up on the cushioned bar on the floor. The altar in front of them is plain except for the baskets of yellow daisies and golden wheat on either side. He can't remember what makes Methodist churches different, if there is anything at all. His father was a devout Lutheran and the church they went to every Sunday was pale and cold. 

They didn't have a church service for his father, his mother wanted it all over as soon as possible. Henry remembers being unbearably hot in his black suit in the full force of the Illinois summer. He didn't cry and he's still proud of that. He thinks he recalls his mother weeping, he spent most of the eulogy staring at his black dress shoes gleaming in the bright green grass and wishing he were golfing. 

Two years before Korea, his mother died, he'd cried when his brother had called from the hospital, but not at the funeral. By then he'd had enough time to steel himself, she died in January and in her will she had insisted that she be buried in upstate New York, in a tiny town where half the population was related to Henry, but he'd never met a single one of them. The ground was frozen until mid-May and they buried her then. It was humid and gray, clouds from the lake threatened to roll in with the new warm season. He's never gone back since, but he'd never visited his father’s grave again so he figures it's all relative. 

He told Walter all this once in one long sentence, punctuated only by shots of whiskey. Henry had stared at Walter from his cot when he had finished, his eyes bleary, feeling as if at any second he might just tumble to the ground. Walter was sitting in the chair with his hands tucked into his sleeves to keep them warm. 

It was brutally cold that night, the first heavy snow of that winter, the tents were sagging with the weight of the drifts that built up on top of them. Somehow Henry felt safer, the snow muffled sounds and they could tell each other quiet things, their voices didn't seem to echo around the office or leak out of the thin tent walls. 

He thinks of the soft look of understanding on Walter's face and he wondered in that moment if somehow Walter already knew all this. Henry watched him take off his coat before he stood and took the glass from Henry's hand. And then he was staring up, Walter over him on the bed, Henry reached up, feeling unfocused, and curled his fingers into the soft folds of Walter's sweater. He clumsily pulled Walter down on top of him and buried his nose into his warm shoulder. He wanted so badly for Walter to say something, maybe he had but Henry didn't remember in the morning. All he could recall were warm lips and the taste of coffee. He felt guilty when he woke up with Walter pressed against him underneath the thick wool blanket. He tried to drink less that winter.

The ache settling into his back from the wooden pew brings him round and Henry clears his throat. “Do all devout Methodists stay after school?” He laughs breathily a little and glances at Walter. He sighs when he doesn't get a response. He leans in close, “Hey, what's goin’ on in there?”

The sudden voice in his ear seems to finally snap Walter out of it. He turns and looks at Henry with something akin to surprise. “Oh! Oh, sorry, Henry, I was just thinking…” He trails off and looks down at his hands. His left hand is curled tightly into a fist and his right hand is wrapped around it. 

“Must be something serious, haven't seen you this worked up since Pierce threatened to take your appendix out the first time." 

Walter looks back up at him, eyes wide, “Can you really tell?”

Henry laughs, “Well, sure, your glasses are only ever clean when you're worried.” 

Walter smiles briefly but drops it the next instant and looks back down at his hands. 

Henry frowns and leans back against the pew, “What's eating you?” It’s quiet again for a moment. “I can't read you that well, y’know?”

Walter touches his glasses briefly and swallows. “There's no more money. Ma told me first night back.”

“I don't think I get it.”

“Ma had to use it to bury Uncle Ed, we've got enough to pay the mortgage this month but after that…” he sniffs. “And they already sold the pigs and the goat.”

Henry stares at him for a moment, “Oh, I hadn't- I didn't realize.” Walter is tearing at his lip and Henry leans down close again. “Look, Walter, it'll be alright, I'll call Lorraine and make sure she sends my next check here and then in six months I'll be licensed again and we won't have to worry.”

Walter looks up at him, “You really think so?”

“Sure, Walter, it'll all be okay, we’ll get the place turned around in no time.”

Walter's shoulders relax and he sits back more comfortably, Henry can tell by the way his hands are still tightly clasped that some part of Walter is still nervous, but at least for now he seems comforted. 

Henry glances over both his shoulders, the women have since left, and the church is eerily quiet. He wraps an arm around Walter's shoulders and holds him close. They don't say anything but Henry presses his face into Walter's soft brown hair and knows that he understands.


	6. Chapter 6

Henry wakes up late again and presses his fingertips over his eyes while he sits on the edge of the bed, trying desperately to gather himself. He couldn't decide whether Walter was incredibly quiet or if he'd become a heavier sleeper after Korea. He supposes it was always like this Walter slipping away long before the break of dawn and letting Henry sleep much longer than he should have. 

Henry stands and groans before he shuffles over to the closet to get dressed. As much as he enjoys holding Walter close even in the increasing heat he wishes it didn't involve one of them being crushed against the wall. And sleeping half off the bed was doing nothing for his back, not that it could do any more damage than those Army cots already had. He wonders what sort of look Mrs. O'Reilly would give him if he hauled the bed from the downstairs bedroom up to this room. A pretty cross one, he guesses, if she sees him attempt it by himself. 

He felt altogether useless in this house where Mrs. O'Reilly spent hours at the stove with soups for dinner and mash for the cow and chickens. It wasn't that he'd never offered to help, but she shoos him from the kitchen with her apron like she chases the fat black tom cat from the chicken coop when he gets too cocky. 

Henry rolls up his shirt sleeves and sits on the bed to pull on his dusty boots, Walter says the rains are coming any day now and they'll have to buy him tall rubber galoshes. He can't imagine that the mud will be any worse than in Korea but he doesn't argue. Besides, what does he know? He's just as useless in the garden as he is in the kitchen. Walter spends almost as much time pulling weeds as he does preventing Henry from treading on every delicate plant. 

He sighs and combs his hair in the little mirror inside the closet door. He leaves the room and makes his way down the stairs. He peers into the kitchen and finds Mrs. O'Reilly at the heavy wooden table butchering a chicken, the feet already set aside for the cats. The whole thing is bloodless, the chicken having been plucked and drained the night before. Her movements are always neat and orderly, in another life Henry thinks she could've been a surgeon. 

“Good morning, Mrs. O'Reilly,” he says, “Where's Walter?” 

She looks up at him, unimpressed as always. “Good morning, Henry,” she replies, “Out at the barn, he said he wanted you out there once you were up. Would you like breakfast? There are sandwiches out at the barn, but your breakfast is still in the stove if you want it.” 

“Oh, you didn't have to do that,” Henry says, “I’ll just have a sandwich with Walter.” 

She waves her hand in acknowledgment and turns over the chicken. 

Henry stands there for a moment and shifts uncomfortably, he sees the dirty potatoes in a pail behind her, “Mrs. O'Reilly would you-” 

She looks up and scowls at him, “Now what’re you still doing here? You oughta go out there.” 

“Well, I just- can I- would you let me help?” Henry stammers, her face isn't unfriendly, just stern, but he can't ever gather his nerve around her. 

“I can fix dinner just fine on my own, thank you, now don't keep him waiting, he's been clearing out that barn all morning.” She picks up the knife and slices past the tendons and bones, easily opening the chest in a way that Henry could've only dreamed of in Korea, anything to move faster than the blood leaking from shredded arteries. He shoves the thought down and leaves the doorframe. 

The air outside is just as fresh in his lungs as it is in the house where the windows are always open and he pats Bessie’s side when he passes her in the yard. She stares up at him with watery eyes and continues chewing as he makes his way to the barn. All of the cats are scattered about the grass sunning themselves, so he figures it's safe enough for a cigar inside. He takes one from his pocket and lights it. 

The light in the barn is dim and in the minute it takes him to adjust to the darkness he catches his foot on something heavy and nearly goes sprawling across the floor. He regains his balance and looks down, there are bits and pieces of what he assumes is a car littering the neatly swept barn floor. He crouches to get a better look at everything, the cigar between his teeth. 

“Hiya, Henry!” Walter's voice startles him and he looks up. Walter is stepping out from behind a stable wall where a car door is leaning. He's wiping his hands, black with grease, on a rag. 

“Walter, what is all this?” Henry gestures to the ground as Walter crosses over to him, stepping carefully around the parts. 

He stands beside Henry with his chin held high. “It's a jeep, Henry,” he says, hardly containing his excitement. 

“A jeep?” Henry sputters, “Like an Army jeep?” 

“Well, y’know…” 

“A whole Army jeep? How did you-” 

Walter shifts from foot to foot, Henry looks back up at him, he's biting his lip with a shy but intensely proud smile on his face. “I mailed it bit by bit.” 

Henry shakes his head in disbelief. “This is one hell of a hobby, Radar, my parents wouldn't even let me have glue, I've never put a damn model plane together.” 

“This doesn't need glue though, and I got the manual!” Walter leans down and grabs a thick booklet from the top of a crate. Henry can only hope that the box is empty, there's enough of a mess as it is. “See!” 

“That doesn't happen to be the manual we only had one copy of? And that you said the guinea pig ate?” Walter's face flushes red and Henry stands. He wraps an arm around Walter's shoulders and Walter leans into his chest. “This jeep isn't coming outta my pension is it?” 

“Oh no! You signed a form saying it was stolen!” 

“Now exactly when and why did I do that?” 

“Remember when we were losing all that stuff to the black market?” 

“Uh-huh,” 

“Well, I just penned it in with all the cotton swabs and then had you sign off.” 

“Somehow I'm not surprised. Funny how we missed that manual more than we missed the jeep.” 

Walter pauses for a moment, staring off to the back of the barn. “Gee, sure is empty in here without the pigs. Used to have horses too, y’know? Two big ones to pull the plow, Bob and Missy, they were real swell, but Pa sold them when I was still little.” 

Henry chews the cigar, “Why’s that?” 

“Cost too much to be feeding them all the time, ‘specially since they were only pulling the plow twice a year, tractors are cheaper, you just gotta rent one when you need it and pay for the gas.” Walter sighs, “Sure do miss them though, I guess I gotta call Mr. White soon and ask to borrow the tractor and the thresher. Have to get this all picked up first though.” He points to the shattered jeep with his foot. 

Henry squeezes his shoulder gently. “Suppose we should get started then. Hey, uh, Walter, your mother, she mentioned sandwiches?” 

“Oh! Guess you didn't have breakfast, I'll go get them, I put them in the cellar since it's gonna be so hot out today.” Walter rises up onto his tiptoes and pecks his cheek. He can't help but feel a warm blush spread across his face. “Be right back,” Walter says and ducks out from under his arm. 

Henry smiles to himself and surveys the barn, a cat creeps among the scattered pieces, sniffing at the oily metal warily. It looks up at him when he shoves his hands into his pockets, Henry thinks that it might just be the gray cat Walter had mentioned a few days ago, her belly is low and heavy. He takes a step forward and she flattens herself to the ground before slinking quickly between a seat and bale of hay. He sighs and takes the cigar from his mouth, Walter will have to catch her. 

He’d visited his uncle’s dairy farm once, the din in humid concrete building was nearly unbearable and he promised himself he'd never become a vet when he was nearly crushed between two of the hulking dairy cows. He much prefers Bessie with her shaggy red coat and sharp bony hips, but even with her, Charlie, and all the cats inside the barn it's near deathly quiet. And now the air is thick with the smell of oil and gasoline. He wonders what it would've been like before the tractors came. Henry takes a drag in his cigar and stares at the stripped metal frame of the car and knows he's looking at the machine that killed the horses. 

He finishes up his cigar just as Walter returns with a plate of sandwiches. He drops the butt onto the ground and grinds it into the dirt with his boot. 

“Oh don't do that!” Walter yelps and grabs Henry's arm with his free hand. “The chickens’ll eat it and get real sick!” 

“Oh, sorry, Walter.” Henry bends down and plucks the cigar from the dust, it’s tattered like a dried leaf and coming apart between his fingers. 

Walter sets down the plate on the wooden box and pulls the rag from his pocket. He holds it open for Henry. “Here, here.” Henry places it in the rag and Walter wraps it neatly before stuffing it back into his pocket. “I hope you haven't been doing that a lot.” 

Henry tries not to look so sheepish when he wipes his hand on his pant leg and takes a sandwich from the plate. Walter flips through the booklet, “Guess we should start by putting some of the little things together,” he says thoughtfully. 

“Just tell me what to do.” The sandwich is a bit dry, but he figures so is his breakfast after being in the stove for so long. Walter hands him the open manual and he takes it. “What's this for?” 

Walter sits down on a bale of hay and motions to a set of parts grouped together, “You just read what's there and I'll put it together.” 

“Hey now, that's not really a job, you can't do this all by yourself.” 

“Well, his way I don't have to go back and forth and we don't have to tear it up if we work on different parts.” Henry stares at him, Walter touches his glasses and leaves a greasy thumbprint on the lens. “Besides, you read better than I do, it's just like one of those medical journals, y’know? Only you get a car at the end of it.” His laugh is lilting and nervous. 

Henry shakes the booklet at him, “You think I'm gonna bust my hand or something, don't you?” 

Walter shrugs, “Better safe than sorry, Henry.” 

“I am plenty good with my hands and this isn't exactly surgery, if you keep mollycoddling me I'm going to show up to that hospital with less backbone than I've already got and they don't hire surgeons with no nerve!” He takes another bite of the sandwich and chews furiously. “For Pete’s sake, your mother won't even let me peel a damn potato!” 

Walter is sitting with his hands clasped in front of him and a patient look on his face, the same that he always had when handing Henry a form to be signed or initialed or stamped and just like then he knows he has no choice. He sighs, feeling calmer but, nonetheless, trapped. 

“I guess I can't show up at the hospital with my hands beat to hell, but you could at least give me something to do, even if it's scaring crows.” 

Walter laughs and Henry sits down next to him on the hay, their arms brushing. He rolls his shoulders with frustration while Walter drags a wooden box with rusty tools out from behind them and puts it between his feet. “You can feed the animals,” he says, “and Ma always needs help with the laundry.” 

Henry scoffs, “When am I ever up early enough to feed the animals? And you know just as well as I do that your mother would have my hide if she ever caught me doing something without tellin’ her first, and if I tell her, she won't let me do it.” 

Walter is rummaging loudly through the box, he comes up empty handed and wipes the dust off on his pants. “Hand me a sandwich, wouldya?” Henry does. “You aren't afraid of her, are you?” 

He pauses and watches Walter take a bite before saying, “Well, she's no Major Houlihan but they have the same posture.” He flips through the manual absently, thinking of the medical textbooks that line the bottom of nearly every unpacked box. 

He'll need to start studying soon if he has any hope of passing the exam six months from now. Korea had severely stunted his diagnostic skills with its endless cycles of malaria and wounds that could only be described as massive trauma and their side effects. He longed for appendectomies and tonsillectomies and other ectomies that hadn't been started for him by a land mine. Cut along the dotted line rather than remove at perforated edge. 

He looks at unfinished half of the sandwich in his hand and then at the crumbs on Walter's fingers, he hands him the sandwich. 

Walter takes it, “You sure?” 

“Yeah, I’ll have another later.” 

“You know,” Walter says around a mouthful, “Ma wouldn't really hurt a fly, she's happy to have you around to help.” 

“Mother could've taken a lesson or two from her.” 

Walter swallows, “What was your mother like?” 

Henry thinks about the photo that he'd shown Walter once, it was small, now it may be stuck in a folder somewhere with a glut of children's drawings and various scraps of what feels like an alternate version of himself. A studio headshot, it didn't say much about who she was, but that wasn't the intent of the photo. It was purely for record keeping purposes, so when someone opened the family album they could know exactly what Mrs. Blake looked like, innocuous, with her mouth tightly shut. The traits his father married her for, the traits he had looked for in Henry's own wife. Of course, Lorraine was not innocuous and would never draw her bright red lips into a thin line, but she wasn't Catholic and that had been good enough for his father. 

Henry grits his teeth for a moment and thinks of how his father would probably look at him now, through the thick black frames that hid the bags under his eyes and crow’s feet at their corners. Unwilling to reveal the failings of his aging face let alone admit to any sort of moral failings within his family. 

Walter rests his left hand on Henry's knee, he tries to understand what exactly he did to deserve honesty like this. Walter didn't walk around with his odd hand stuffed in his pocket here but Henry still kept most of his thoughts in his head. He supposes he got that from his mother. 

“She was soft on me, I probably could've used more discipline,” he says and Walter nods. Henry knows he understands, but feels guilty, maybe he'll have a brandy or two tonight and they can talk about it. “C’mon, it'll be dark before you know it.” 

“Alright, then.” Walter takes his hand from Henry's knee and once again digs through the toolbox. “Go to the page I had it on and tell me what we need first.” 

“Uh.” Henry flips through the manual looking for the diagram that looks like it's made up of the parts in front of him. 

“Henry?” 

“Yeah?” He finds an image that looks close enough and mouths the instructions quietly to himself hoping that it will give him some sort of insight into what it all means. 

“You think your father would mind? Me being a Methodist and all?” 

Henry looks up at him from the book, Walter smirks back. He reaches out and taps the top of Walter's head with spine of the book. “You know, I don't think he'd even ask.” 

*** 

After dinner Henry lays on the couch, arms folded over his chest, a glass of brandy balanced between his hands. His head is propped on one arm of the sofa and his feet rest on the other, he feels like he's bent in half. Mrs. O'Reilly has gone upstairs to bed and Walter is out at the barn, shutting it for the night. 

The jeep is nowhere near finished, its guts still scattered in the empty stalls, but at least now it was in fewer pieces. The brandy is on the table beside him, a bit too close, this is his third glass, but he's sick of the gory snapshots that have been surfacing all day. He figures he can lapse just a little, this is the driest he's been in a year and a half, maybe more. It's wearing him thin. 

The front door opens and Henry hears Walter step inside and kick off his boots. He takes another sip from the glass and sets it down on the table. Walter comes into the parlor quietly, his cheeks are flushed from the warm evening air. The sun had drawn the moisture from the soft damp soil and now the air was humid and thick with the smell of earth. 

When Walter shuffles over to the couch Henry gestures to the glass, “You want some?” 

Walter looks at the bottle for a moment and Henry wonders if he remembers how much was in it before. “No thanks,” Walter says, he looks back to Henry, “You gonna move over?” 

Henry shifts towards the edge of the couch when Walter climbs over him and settles between the cushions and Henry's side. He closes his eyes and presses his lips to Walter's forehead. Walter reaches across his chest and takes his hand, lifting it gently. It had taken some prodding but Walter had let him assemble a few things and hold the small bolts and washers that he was afraid to drop onto the dusty floor. 

Henry feels Walter’s firm fingertips pressing at the joints, the aches have built steadily month after month, but he can still hold his hands out level and pour brandy smoothly from the bottle. He can feel Walter's mouth move against his cheek when he asks, “Do you feel okay?” 

“My hands are fine if that's what you mean.” It comes out harsher than he means it to sound, his voice muffled by Walter’s skin and just a little thick from the alcohol. 

Walter shifts against him, and pulls his hand across to his face, Henry can feel the cool thin wire of his glasses beneath his fingertips and then Walter presses Henry's palm against his cheek. He pushes down on his hand like he is applying pressure to an open wound, staunching the steady flow of blood. 

When Walter eases up on his hand Henry pulls it slowly from his grasp. He turns his head and takes the glass from the table, he drinks the rest of the brandy from it. Walter doesn't say a word, but Henry can feel his eyes on him and doesn't turn back to face him. Instead he stares up and follows a crack in the ceiling with his eyes from where it begins above him to where it bends down and ends on the opposite wall beneath the wooden doorframe. The blue paint on the wood has begun to chip. 

“It feels like I've been gone forever, y’know?” says Walter, his voice is distant. 

He turns his head, Walter has looked away now and is staring vacantly up at the cracked plaster. Henry pulls him a little closer and presses his face against his cheek. His skin is warm and damp, salty against Henry’s lips. 

“In Korea everything stayed the same, and I just thought-” Henry can just barely hear Walter’s voice tremble before he swallows. “I just thought it would be the same here when I got home, Ma wrote all those letters and sent that movie and that's what I thought I'd come back to.” 

“I'm sorry about your Uncle Ed-” 

Walter sniffs and Henry finds his hand on his stomach and covers it with his own, lacing his fingers between Walter’s. “It's not just about him though, the pigs and the goat are gone and most of my cousins left town. And now- now I dunno how we're gonna afford corn next season, it was always close, we don't have a lot of land and the prices keep goin’ up. Most of the farmers are selling their land now.” 

“We’ll be alright, it's not like it's all happening tomorrow,” he says. 

Walter throws a leg over his own in an apparent attempt to get closer. “But it's gonna happen, it feels like the days are shorter here.” 

“Is that a bad thing?” 

There's a pause, “I guess not, in Korea I was just sitting around waiting for something horrible to happen to me. I can't believe I ever wanted to leave the farm. But then you wouldn't be here.” 

Henry sighs, “Funny how that works. Korea was, well, it was hell, but I'd rather be here than anywhere else, and I can't help being- I can’t help being grateful somehow.” 

“Do you miss your wife?” 

The question catches Henry off guard, he thinks for a moment that he could've used another glass of brandy if he had known this was coming. He can feel Walter tense beside him and he squeezes his hand. 

“How long have you been holding that in?” It's quiet for a moment. “Never mind, look, I want to be here with…” he trails off for a second, “You know that I want to be here, I'm not gonna lie and say I don't miss someone I spent half my life around, or that I don't miss the kids. But that's all different now, or maybe I’m different, I don't know.” 

Walter's breathing is slow and rhythmic and for a moment Henry thinks he must've fallen asleep, he lifts his head to look at him. Walter's mouth is drawn into a thin line and he glances up at Henry. 

And he realizes his mistake now, he made it two years ago when for a brief few hours he chose to go back to his life in Bloomington. When he had left Walter because it seemed simpler for the both of them. Then in those short hours he'd been lost forever and returned with just two phone calls. One hell of a magic trick. 

Henry thinks of his second call to Lorraine, it had been strange, as if they both knew what was coming. Lorraine even said it two months after he'd arrived home when he'd walked out of his study one night on his way to the porch for a smoke and found her in the hall staring at the family photos on the wall. 

She said she was glad that he had called again and told her that maybe it was time to move on, because she didn't know how to say it herself. And she had given herself six months to tell him, six months to let him settle, six months so she could know if she had truly made up her mind. And with one phone call he had saved her six unhappy months. They stood there quietly in the dark for a while, staring at the photographs and listening to cars passing by the house. She never asked him why, he figures she must have had some idea, Lorraine was far from naïve about those things. 

Before Korea she had looked at him with tired, knowing eyes, but she never mentioned infidelity, he feels guilty now, that he took that silence as a sort of permission. He couldn't, with any clear conscience, say that he spared her those six months for anything but selfish reasons. He can't deny that he deserved Lorraine leaving him, instead of the other way around. But at least for once something good had come from his selfishness. 

He realizes now he can't expect Walter to stop asking for reassurance, he's proven outright that he can change his mind on a whim. But for once Henry feels as though he's made the right choice. He feels more at home in the cramped warm bed upstairs than he ever did in Bloomington. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says and the words feel meaningless and empty to him now but Walter relaxes and buries his face in Henry's shoulder. Henry rests his chin on his head and knows that he believes him, he just wishes that he had never put doubt in Walter's mind before this. 

He’s starting to sober up, not that he'd had enough to drink in the first place, and he thinks of his father again and the sickly sweet smell in the room of the hospice. The smell of a slow death. It wasn't until Korea that he'd encountered it again, the first patient he lost there, it must've happened only two weeks after they’d set up camp. 

Later on he would turn away boys like that, with so much missing it was kinder to let them just slip away, but he had been uninitiated then. That boy made it through nearly four hours on the table but only lived two more in post-op. It was better he never woke up in the end, Henry didn't know how to tell a boy that he'd survived a belly full of shrapnel but he'd die anyways without his kidneys. 

He'd felt ghoulish sitting on the cot across from the kid, he can't recall his name now, and just waiting like he had at his father’s bedside. His brother had paced the stuffy room and his mother sat next to him thumbing through a bible. He couldn't tell if she actually found any solace in it or if she just couldn't bear to look at her husband. 

Walter is stroking his hand gently with his thumb and Henry presses his nose into his hair. 

“Pierce told me once I'd have to go back to Bloomington and die in my bed,” he says after a moment, his voice muffled. 

It's quiet for a moment before Walter pulls away and looks at him, his brow creased. 

Henry chews the inside of his cheek. “And I just couldn't help thinking that would the worst thing that could happen to me. I would have rather died in Korea than at home with Lorraine and the kids staring down at me and just waiting for me to go. That's how my father went, Mother had the good sense to have that heart attack.” 

Walter is still rubbing his hand in slow comforting circles. “I think the plane would've been worse.” 

“Maybe.” Henry regrets saying that the next instant when Walter’s hand stops moving. “Sorry, Walter, I didn't mean that.” 

“S’alright.” He tucks his head back beside Henry's neck and they lie there in silence. 

Henry closes his eyes, his limbs feel heavy and he rolls onto his side, contouring his body so that it fits tightly against Walter’s. Everything is warm now, edging closer to hot, Walter’s breath his humid on his throat and he can feel the sweat gathering under his shirt collar. 

“Let’s go to bed,” Walter whispers and Henry holds him tighter. 

“In a bit,” he replies. He doesn’t want to leave the sofa and lose the heat of Walter’s body against his own. He feels safe here, so close to sleep, where the memories are little more than washed out images that will disappear completely when he loses consciousness. The only tangible things right now are the warmth and weight of the body beside his. 

He’s roused when Walter pulls his hand from Henry’s grasp. Walter runs his fingers through the hair above his ear and around to the back of his head where he stops to cradle the curve of Henry’s skull with his hand. 

Henry feels a rush of frustration with himself. Here he is sweating and bent in half on a couch, fully dressed, moping about a plane he didn’t die in when he could be in bed, undressed between the cool sheets. He could have his bare chest pressed against Walter’s instead of being separated by three layers of fabric. 

Walter leans back again and tilts Henry’s lips down to his own. The kiss is gentle but Henry can feel desperation behind it when Walter tugs slightly on his lower lip. He’s fully awake now and dizzy from the kiss. He breaths out. 

“You’re right,” he murmurs, “let’s go upstairs.” And they leave the couch, ignoring the brandy and glass still on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I updated this, sorry about that. I'm still working on this fic, it just happens to be in a hundred bits and pieces. I feel like this isn't as solid as I'd like it to be, but going over and over it has held me back so it's probably time just to let it go. Thank you all for the support you've given me!


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